


Folie à deux

by beehoony



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 55,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22856572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beehoony/pseuds/beehoony
Summary: His pale blue eyes were fixed on hers. “I was not led to believe that you spoke French.”“I don’t. I only know of a few words.”“Is that so?” There was a hint of mocking in his tone. “Do enlighten me.”A foolish answer would have invited scorn, but the first words that came to mind were movie inanities. Au revoir. Merci beaucoup. Je t’aime. “Folie à deux. It’s a psychiatric term for a...shared delusion, to put it simply.”The look in his eyes was indecipherable. “Folie à deux...How informative."
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Original Character(s), Sebastian LaCroix/Original Female Character(s), Sebastian LaCroix/Original Ventrue Character(s)
Comments: 130
Kudos: 198





	1. The opening

The necessity and the practicality of wearing sunglasses at night seemed dubious, but it didn’t appear to affect the cab driver’s ability to weave in and out of traffic and catch every green light. She sank back into the seat and watched headlights flash past. Unlike most cab drivers, he seemed quite happy to drive without any music to disguise the sound of tyres on tarmac and the rumble of engines. At least the cost of this fare would ensure that her workaholic tendencies wouldn’t provoke another round of nagging from Samantha and the others for keeping them waiting, not having a life, wasting her youth and so on and so forth.

She thanked the driver as she handed over the fare, hoping that she had tipped him enough. He continued to wear the expression of people in painted portraits produced by hours of sitting still, stewing in boredom and frustration—which seemed like a fair description of his job. As she got out of the car, he rolled down the window and said, “Have a good night.” The gravelly monotone didn’t suggest much sincerity, but she appreciated the courtesy.

She waved, already striding towards her destination, the cheerily named Día de Muertos. Online reviews raved about how it was all so very chic and topical. The wait staff dressed in traditional festival finery while everyone sat around drinking expensive tequila cocktails and talked about dying. The average person was so far removed from the painful, messy process of death that alcohol and mood lighting were prerequisites to even consider the inevitable.

Her phone suggested that it would very much like to be in low power mode, the battery indicator an ominous red. She felt the same way, but she had promised Samantha that she would be there. She would have to keep the call short. “Hey. I’m here. Where are you guys? I don’t see you. I’m sleep-deprived, not illiterate. I’m definitely at Día de Muertos.” A pause to drag a hand over her face. “God, no, I didn’t realise that there were two branches. The cab driver seemed so sure... Sorry. Sorry. I know. Just start without me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She hung up. Well, shit.

It was too early for cabs to bother waiting around, and they were all off chasing fares elsewhere. The next bus was in half an hour, but the closest metro station was a twenty minute walk. She sighed and strode back to the cab stand. Maybe she would get lucky.

A black luxury SUV with tinted windows pulled up at the cab stand, disgorged a man who wore the smug self-assurance of the very rich, then roared off into the night. Typical rich bastard who expected that road signs and laws alike applied to everyone bar themselves. The man looked down at her with some interest. She twitched her lips in acknowledgement and pulled out her phone again and checked the time. Reading meaningless articles on the internet was not an option right now, which was annoying because she wanted to blend into the background as yet another smartphone zombie.

Instead, she folded her arms and stared into the distance. The city looked better by night. Easier to concentrate on the dazzling lights and ignore the grime. The downtrodden and destitute were out of sight, having staked out their corners away from where others walked in light, lest the bright ones resent having their illusion dispelled.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” The man had the greasy wheedling voice of a politician on the campaign trail. She made a small sound of assent, which he seemed to take as encouragement. “I’m Jonathan.”

It was at the point where avoiding eye contact would have been downright rude. Meeting his gaze did not make her see the need to revise her initial impression of him. His jawline spoke of generations of careful breeding to select for a silhouette that shouted Masculinity and Authority, and it was carefully angled upwards to emphasise those qualities. One well-manicured hand was proffered with the air of a king waiting for a vassal to kiss his signet ring. She stared at it for a moment, weighing up how much bullshit she had endured so far this week.

Of course, this week was the week that the family of a ninety-six year old patient had announced they were suing the hospital and everyone involved in terminal care of their beloved family member for negligence, because old pop had not been intubated and left to die a slow lingering death while being mechanically ventilated and fed through a percutaneous gastrotomy tube. Once, that frail skeletal old man had been the same age as this jock standing before her, arrogant in his cloak of youthful invincibility, unaware that age or death would conquer all.

Still, she had been brought up to be polite. She returned the handshake, and was unsurprised that he had a firm, assertive grip. “Hello.”

His smile demonstrated a neat array of perfectly white teeth, but the muscles around his eyes remained immobile. “This is usually the part where you tell me your name.”

“It’s been pleasant to make your acquaintance, but I shouldn’t keep my friends waiting.” Whatever it was that he wanted, people like him never did anything without an agenda.

“You truly are a fascinating specimen,” he said. “So...guarded.” He made a show of craning his neck. “While your friends appear to have stood you up, I have an...associate who would like to meet you. He has taken an interest in the Oriental of late.”

“The phrase that you’re looking for is Asian-American,” she enunciated in a voice that could have cut glass. “And for the first time, I find myself suggesting a ticket to Avenue Q for educational purposes.” Taking the metro was beginning to look more appealing by the second.

Jonathan rounded on her as she turned to go. “Oh, I’m not done with you yet, sweet thing.” He could have been the lead in a daytime soap opera with lines like that. Arms that had been carefully sculpted by a personal trainer and squeezed into the tightest of suits were spread like a ringmaster welcoming the crowd. He let out an incredulous bark of laughter when she made to get past him. “Are you truly so indifferent to my presence?”

The instinct to offer the unwanted truth warred with her innate desire to spare even this annoying jerk any unnecessary pain. “I’m sure that plenty of people in there—“ she waved at the bar, “—would love to make your acquaintance.” They could compare who had the tightest outfit.

“It’s in our nature to want that which we are not meant to have.” A forefinger and thumb gripped her chin firmly and forced her to look up at him, his mouth curved in a predatory smile, a shark that had scented blood. She tried to pull away, but she may as well have tried to tear herself free from a bear trap. Her nails dug into cool flesh, and she planted her feet before kneeing him in the groin. He didn’t even blink. “Mm, I do so enjoy a challenge. Don’t struggle, little morsel. You want to come with me.”

A weight was settling over her mind. She didn’t need to cry out. He seemed nice. She should see where he wanted to go.

“No,” she forced out, hardly more than a whisper. She was adrift in a dark sea, the depths calling to her. “Let go of me.”

He laughed again, utterly delighted this time, a man who had picked up a pebble that turned out to be a diamond. The world beyond his face faded into a blurred swirl of headlights in the darkness. “I can’t believe this. Come now, don’t make this so hard on yourself.” His voice was compelling, velvet tones that melted into the soft folds of her mind. “Come with me, child. I want to show you something.”

*

These modern times bred such impatient people. A parcel from New York could be at your doorstep overnight. A train could take you from Paris to Calais in less than three hours. A text message and a short video could be beamed up to a satellite in silent orbit and arrive at his mobile phone in scant seconds.

Sebastian LaCroix put his phone down on his desk and composed himself. One never knew when the Nosferatu were watching, as that whelp Jonathan Rhineheart had just proved. Gary, that filthy sewer rat, playing his games in the dark, pulling on the strings of all the puppets in this theatre of the damned. He and his filth were loyal to the Camarilla in name only; it was clear their true loyalties to themselves and the almighty deity of currency.

The threat was more explicit than implicit. A Camarilla loyalist, Ventrue blue blood in his veins, dominating a kine in plain sight. In the usual course of things, that would not have been a problem, but the knee to the groin was not the usual reaction—which made the girl a curiosity that the Tremere would have loved to dissect—and worse yet, the fool boy hadn’t bothered to pretend he had any semblance of sensation remaining in his dead nerves. Rhineheart could have just found easier prey. But he was like so many of the younger Ventrue in the new world: too accustomed to getting what he wanted, and to having it right now. LaCroix exhaled sharply and rested his forehead on steepled fingers. And such were the tools with which he must conquer a city.

He turned to his sheriff, silent and unblinking behind him. “Find Rhineheart. Bring him to me. He carried off a kine as well—make sure that you don’t leave any loose ends.”


	2. The game begins

LaCroix stood backstage at the Nocturne Theatre, hands loosely clasped behind his back, a soldier waiting at ease. He had a view of the entrance from where he stood, although he himself was obscured by a velvet curtain. Most of the Kindred were there for the same reasons that public hangings had once been popular entertainment. Others were there to gloat. Most of the downtown Anarchs travelled at the heels of Nines Rodriguez, slavering over his every word like whipped dogs. The self-proclaimed Baron of Hollywood came with his miserable illegitimate brat, but alas, it had predated LaCroix’s arrival in Los Angeles, otherwise the sulking boy would have had his final turn on the stage. They were accompanied by the infamous Ms Velour, who saw fit to wear lingerie to a gathering of her peers, and LaCroix raised an eyebrow when she blew a kiss towards Strauss’s favoured box. He would have to keep that in mind, and perhaps assign one of his more discreet agents to investigate. Therese Voerman sat in the front row, brushing some imaginary lint off her dark suit before arranging herself with her legs folded demurely.

It was time to make an example of Rhineheart.

It went so well, right up until the second Rodriguez decided to intervene.

“This is bullshit!”

There was a moment of perfect, crystalline stillness, the world stretched taut between Rodriguez and himself. The brittle silence was broken by a rising susurrus of whispers, like restless wind stirring through dead grass, all too ready for the touch of flame. There was not a Kindred who had forgotten the moment of their Embrace or the hours after. The pain of dying. The exquisite pleasure of that first drink of their sire’s blood. The hunger. The blood binding them. And this girl, her white cotton blouse still stained red where the Scourge had staked her, was a potent reminder to them all. She still looked like an innocent, one who had yet to be introduced to the court of the damned.

To LaCroix, she didn’t so much resemble a nostalgic memory as a much as a publicity nightmare.

The moment was balanced on the edge of a knife. His eyes swept the audience, memorising the faces of those who stood with Rodriguez. No, this was not the time to push them. One fledgling was not worth open war. In the tones of edged diplomacy, he said, “If Mr Rodriguez would let me finish?”

*

Her vision faded into static as she was hauled up by a hand that spanned her arm from shoulder to elbow. She managed to stay upright, even with her legs trembling like a newborn lamb. A blonde man with startlingly pale blue eyes appeared in her field of vision, snapping his fingers impatiently.

“Bring the fledgling some blood.” He sounded like he was one straw away from breaking someone else’s back. “Am I paying you to gawp like a slack-jawed cretin? Make sure it is fit for a Ventrue.” Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply on his heels and started marching to the exit, beckoning for her to follow.

“What—“

He either did not hear her or did not see a point in listening to her. “Your sire—tragic, my apologies, but you see, there is a strict code of conduct that all of us must...must...adhere to if we wish to survive. When someone, anyone, breaks these laws, they undermine the well-worn fabric of our centuries old society. Understand my predicament. Allowing you to live makes me directly responsible for your subsequent behaviour. So... what I’m offering is not generosity, but an opportunity to transcend the fate woven by your sire.”

The hideous creature that had staked her tried to hand him a unit of packed red cells in the middle of his monologue and he waved it towards her. She took the blood pack reflexively when it was offered, while the creature’s lips peeled away from set of uneven, yellowed teeth that seemed composed solely of canines. It might have been a smile. She blinked, remembering. She had been  staked through the chest . Her finger found the ragged hole in her blouse. Under that—smooth skin. A penetrating chest wound like that should have killed her. She shook her head. “This is quite a bizarre dream, even by my standards.”

“Ah. Of course. I forget that you have been...ill used by your sire.” There was a flash of emotion in his pale eyes, a curled lip, then his face was calm again. “I assure you, this is no dream. I will give you the abbreviated version. You are now a vampire, by and large the very same as that of the mythology of European cultures, and you can thank Jonathan Rhineheart for your current condition. Drink the vitae. Hunger is a dangerous state—it gives strength to the Beast in you, and leaves you at risk of shaming yourself by going into a state of frenzy.”

This was a bad joke. It had to be. But hunger was clawing at her, scraping at her lower ribs, hollowing her abdomen. The packed cell bag was labelled AB positive. A rare blood group. Someone bleeding somewhere needed this.

Irritation found its way back onto his face, and she suspected that it was quite at home there. “I hope you prove more amenable to instruction and advice in the future. You and I share the blood of the Ventrue clan, the leaders of the Camarilla. Our innate abilities make us suited to the burden of leadership. The presence to command attention. The fortitude to withstand the turmoil of power. And the ability to...enforce our will, where necessary.” He took the blood pack from her, tore it open in a single, precise movement, then held it to her lips. “Drink.”

She resisted for a long moment, conscious of him watching her through narrowed eyes. The thirst prevailed; her rational mind shut down. Cold blood sluiced over her tongue and she sucked desperately at the bag. She retained just enough self-awareness to be horrified, and to think of yoghurt pouches.

A nasal laugh brought her back to her senses. “Hah! Look at that suckhead go!”The grotesque creature who had handed her the blood pack was doubled over, one clawed finger wiping tears from his eyes.

“Silence.” Without taking his eyes off her, the blonde man dismissed the monstrous man in the leather fetish armour and the silent giant with a wave. “Leave us.” He ran his tongue over his upper lip and she caught a glimpse of a predator’s canines. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “A poor first meal, compared to hunting fresh prey. We do not have time for such niceties, although I will suggest that you restrict your feeding to mortals of a certain...calibre, unless you wish to make yourself ill.” He checked the time on an expensive wristwatch. “The night grows short and there are arrangements that must be made. This—is your trial. You will be brought to Santa Monica. There, you will meet an agent by the name of Mercurio. He will provide the details of your labour. I’ve shown you great clemency. Prove that it was more than a wasted gesture, fledgling. Don’t come back...until you do.” He held the door open for her, and gave her a curt nod. “Good evening.” The door slammed shut behind her, and she was abandoned to the cool night air.

*

He did not relish the thought of having to speak to the sewer rat after all this, but there was no one else who could do what was necessary. Gary answered on the second ring. “Heard you put on a good show, boss.”

“Primogen. My thanks for your assistance in upholding the rule of law.” He was not going to give the Nosferatu the satisfaction. “As you have no doubt heard, I have granted clemency to the ill-begotten childe. If the kine begin to search for her, I would consider it a service to the Camarilla if their efforts are stymied.”

“Leave it to us, boss. Such a shame about your boy. By the way, a little rat told me that the Sabbat have caught wind of your little party. You might want to skedaddle home. Toodle-loo!” The call ended.

LaCroix resisted the urge to hurl his phone across the room. Right on cue, there was the sound of sub-machine gun fire. The fledgling! He had not planned on sending her out into a gunfight. Rodriguez would turn every Kindred in LA against him if she ended up dead minutes after being spared from the Sheriff’s sword. He turned his furious gaze on the hulking enforcer. “Clear them out. Ensure that the fledgling is out of harm’s way.”

He pulled out a revolver from under his suit jacket. He still had work to do tonight, but it would have to wait until he was back in Venture Tower. If some Sabbat strayed into his path to the car, then they would not find him unprepared. He had not come this far to fall to the so-called shovelheads. They would pay for this insolence. The Sabbat, the Anarchs, the Nosferatu and every Kindred in this cursed city would be brought under his rule.

LaCroix walked out into the night, dreaming of retribution and power.


	3. A pawn is moved

_Well, you catch a sunrise and it’s all over, kiddo._

The greasy windows would probably let enough light in. Or she could walk down to the beach and wait for the sunrise, with sand and sea between her toes. There was dried blood crusted on her tongue, and her hands would never be clean again. Once upon a time, just one revolution of the clock in the past, she would have professed a preference to be killed rather than to kill, but to her disappointment, her morals had proven elastic. They had been trying to kill her for no more reason than that she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She didn’t deserve to live any more than they did. But was her right to live any less than theirs?

There was also the point that calling this ‘life’ was a bit of a stretch. She checked herself again for any wounds, but neither bullets nor stake had marked her flesh for long. She couldn’t find a pulse on herself, and while cold hands were par for the course for her, they were completely bloodless now. Her pupils still were reactive to light, although her night vision had never been this sharp. It occurred to her to listen for her own heart sounds, but of course she did not have her stethoscope. They had taken everything off her—wallet, keys, phone—anything that could be used to identify her.

There was an hour or so until sunrise. The apartment clearly had been used by another with her condition before—plywood sheets were carelessly thrown in a heap in the corner, and someone had bothered to hammer in nails around the window frames to help wedge the pieces in the right place. She did so, figuring that if she was going to meet the sun, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in this dump. That done, she read the notes on the desk. M. Strauss, whoever he was, had a beautiful cursive that belonged in a different century. A battered laptop had been left on the desk, and she logged in a with huff of displeasure, punching in ‘suckhead’ then ‘sunrise’. It seemed that the fetish leather fancier was also the local IT vampire. The very first email, with a time stamp shortly after the attack on the theatre, was a pointed reminder to meet Mercurio, and finally a name to match the haughty face. The rest of was junk mail (which boded poorly for the security of The LaCroix Foundation Secure Intranet), bar one riddle.

<Subject> The opening

<Sender> A friend

The game begins. A pawn is moved.

Her finger hovered over the delete button, but instead she shut the laptop and glanced at the time. With some haste, she went through the cupboards, looking to see if there was anything she could use to cover the stained mattress. They were all bare, although there were three blood packs in the refrigerator. That, and the cash in the drawer were presumably LaCroix’s largesse. The hundred dollars would be enough to buy a few essentials. She jogged down the narrow stairs and checked that the alley was empty before exiting and hurrying to the shop.

The guy behind the counter looked exhausted, as befitted someone who was approaching the end of his night shift. “Hey. Uh, you’ve got...uh, are you injured?”

She gave him the smile of the blissfully oblivious. “This? First my favourite blouse gets chewed up by the washing machine, then I spilled red wine on it. I’m such a klutz.”

He looked somewhat reassured. “Don’t worry man, I can totally relate. I’ve ruined loads of t-shirts that way. Curry too. That always gets me.”

“Same here. Do you have any tops in my size? And a sleeping bag?”

“I’ll see what I can rustle up.” He started rummaging around the shelves. “You, uh, new to Santa Monica?”

“Guilty as charged. Is it that obvious?”

“It’s not a big surprise. We get new faces through here night after night.” He sounded dispirited. “Used to be more tourists, but now... I dunno man...it’s more like drifters.”

The only reason that she could think of to come to Santa Monica was the aquarium, which held a rather niche appeal. “Why is that?”

“Beats me. Santa Monica is dead. I don’t know why anyone comes out here anymore.” His depression seemed to lift for an instant when he pulled out a large sleeping bag. “Hah! I knew I had one. It’s, uh, too warm for California. Got it off a Canadian. Lemme see if I’ve got any shirts in your size. Hm, might be a bit big, but these are the smallest ones I’ve got. Been here a while, might be a bit...musty.”

“You’re a lifesaver. How much for all these?” The money wasn’t going to take her very far.

“Thirty bucks to take it off my hands.” He took the bills and shoved them into his jeans pocket without looking. “Anything else I can help with you with? Drop by anytime, ok?”

She let herself out, wondering what would make a man lock himself up in a cage every night for the foreseeable future, and how long it would take to go mad from it. But then again, she was about to lock herself up for the day on the word of a cheerful man who looked like a biker with the canines of a predator. And that was the least shocking thing in a night of violence.

The shower was in the same state as the rest of the apartment, but she scrubbed it with her ruined blouse before stepping in. The cold water hit her like a welcome slap to the face. Needed to clear her head. Think! If this was a dream—

_I assure you, this is no dream._

—it was rather long, painful and intricate.

Start at the beginning. Left work late, as usual. Took a cab to Día de Muertos. Wrong place. And there was...

_I forget that you have been...ill used by your sire._

_And the ability to...enforce our will, where necessary._

_You ever had a Ph.D., kid? Oh, that's good stuff._

Wrong place, wrong time, a gazelle set before the lion.

One hand touched the angle of her jaw, travelled downwards to where her carotid pulse should have been.

A pile of ash, and a skeleton that disintegrated to dust before her eyes. A voice crooning in her ear, _I want to show you something_. Her sire’s gaze holding hers even as the sword fell.

Think.

She couldn’t think, not with the memory of the Sabbat shovelhead coming at her after her command to sleep had worn off, and the sickening crunch of bone as the tire iron met his temple, then the sight of blood and grey matter clotted on the end of her makeshift weapon. Not with the vision of a gun barrel looming in front of her face, a pea-shooter set to launch lead pellets into her brain, until she begged—no, demanded that they stop, and they complied long enough for her to make them stop for good.

Maybe the myths and legends had a firm basis in truth. But fatigue was settling over her like the weight of the world and it was time to sleep like the dead.


	4. One good thing

She rummaged through an empty room in the Santa Monica clinic, looking for suture kits, vials of local anaesthetic, and dressings. Mercurio would have kissed her feet if she found a stray bottle of morphine, but she had different priorities. Damn it, he should be in hospital. She prayed that vampire blood could sort out his possible basal skull fracture and orbital floor blowout fracture. She could...stitch up a few leaks. As she swept the supplies into her bag, she felt a pang of guilt, but Mercurio needed them. 

As she headed for the front door, she heard a faint moan from one of the rooms. “Uh. Please—get a doctor.” A girl with hair dyed the red of a stop sign tried to sit up in a bed, then sank back down. Her face was the colour of paper. 

Volunteering to treat her was probably a bad idea. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Uhh. My insides. They hurt so bad.” The girl lapsed back into semi-consciousness. Dying seemed like a good excuse for bad grammar. She pulled up the girl’s bloodied top, pressed on the bruised abdomen. The girl groaned and went rigid under her hand. Damn, damn, damn. She couldn’t out herself. 

Dr St Martin was standing over an unconscious man, endotracheal tube in hand. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’re going to have to wait outside like everyone else. No exceptions.” Pretty brave to try to intubate someone without at least one other pair of hands on board, but she had seen no other staff apart from the triage nurse barring junkies from sneaking around to the treatment rooms. 

“I think my friend is dying,” she said flatly. “She’s losing consciousness.” 

He shook his head, looking annoyed. “See here now, I’m the only physician here at the moment. We got twice as many people as usual waiting for treatment. I’ll look at her soon as possible. Try to talk to her, keep her awake.” 

“But...” 

“I got a man in there with a bullet in his head. My nurse paged Dr Roberts a half hour ago; he’ll be here anytime. Till then, stay with your friend and make sure she doesn’t go into shock. I must go.” 

The man on the table had not taken a breath during their entire conversation. She really shouldn’t hold up the intubation anymore. “Please, come as quickly as you can.” Shock doesn’t work that way, though. Not like the movies where you can beg someone to stay with you. Once perfusion to the brain is gone, that’s that, and this girl barely had enough to have a pulse. 

She went back to the room and the girl’s eyes fluttered open under her bent spectacles. After a laboured breath, she asked, “Can someone call my grandma...please?” 

Masquerade be damned. She pulled on a pair of gloves, found a vein and inserted a cannula, hung up a bag of normal saline and started it running through. There had to be some O-negative blood around somewhere. Buying time, hopefully enough to ship her out to a trauma centre. She was clearly bleeding into her abdomen. Splenic rupture. Liver laceration. Didn’t matter, what she needed was a surgeon to open her up and stitch her back together. 

She followed the signs to the blood bank, and was greeted by a man with lank hair and a propensity to display the whites of his eyes every time he smiled. “You next up for the needle? Your donation could save a life, you know. Oh, but isn’t it a little late for altruism? I don’t think you’re here to give blood at all. I don’t buy it, Betty. I bet you’re here to take blood. Am I right?” 

“Dr St Martin sent me. He needs some O-neg.” She tried to sound bored. 

“They all come in here with that same, nonchalant look. With that ‘Who, me?’ stare, as if they were so clever. Do you think that you’re the first vampire to try to come in here to buy blood? Honestly.” Slasher grin again. It would be a miracle if he did not have a criminal record. 

“Just give me two units of packed cells.” Anger was coiling in her muscles. Strange how her blood ran so hot in death. 

“Nuh-uh-uh, Betty.” He wagged a finger and she had a fleeting thought of how satisfying it would be to snap it. “It’s green for red around here. Going rate is ninety-four dollars a pop, and double that for a fancy vintage. 

“Give. Me. The. Blood.” She tried to enforce her will, as the prince called it, but the bastard just laughed. 

“Serving number seventy-five, number seventy-five...” 

She walked away before she put her fist through the reinforced glass, or made a fool of herself trying. It was a sick world where lifesaving blood was diverted to the dead, and when she had the money, she would be a damned hypocrite. Taking the stairs two at a time, she raced back to the girl’s bedside. If nothing else, she would not die alone. The girl knew death was coming, as many do. She cried quietly, in too much pain to do anything else. 

She held the girl’s hand in silence. There was nothing more she could do for the girl. 

But maybe... 

Mercurio should be dead. The vamp blood, he said. 

There was not much time for vacillating. She kicked the door closed, then went through the drawers, found a disposable scalpel blade, bent her wrist back so the skin was taut, and cut through to her radial artery. Keeping her gaze averted, she let a few drops of blood fall onto the girl’s lips. 

The effect was electric. The girl grabbed her wrist, gulping like a feeding infant, bliss replacing suffering. When the colour began returning to the girl’s face, she snatched her hand away. “Are you all right?” 

The girl squinted at her blearily, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “You...wa-who...w-who are you? Ohh. What did you do? What did you do to me?” 

“I simply wanted to help,” she said, more for her own benefit. LaCroix would undoubtedly be royally pissed if he ever found out. 

“But you did something. I-I-I kissed your wrist... I can feel it inside of me. What did you do?” The girl put a hand on her belly, where her organs were presumably knitting together. 

This was getting very uncomfortable. “Look, forget about this...and don’t say anything. You’ll be fine.” 

“You—I feel like I know you... like you’ve always been here.” The girl sounded dazed, but she was peering through her spectacles, paying far too much attention to her face. 

“I really must be going now.” She left, closing the door behind her. If her dead body decided to fail in the next few nights, she could rest a little more easily knowing that at least one good thing had come of this. With a quick stride, she left the hospital, wishing that all her bad decisions were so easily left behind. 


	5. An unexpected visitor

LaCroix sniffed with disdain as he approached the alley next to the pawnshop. He had always considered that one of the major benefits of living in the twenty-first century was the joy of public sanitation, but some people clearly still considered alleys their personal latrines. A man wearing a department store suit was lurching down the street, his eyes glazed with a look that LaCroix recognised. No, this kine was not the responsible for the stench. 

The small apartment complex was appalling. He should divest himself of the unit eventually. Or perhaps purchase the whole land title for redevelopment. There was the sound of soft singing and water rattling through pipes coming from his destination, audible only to supernatural senses. It terminated abruptly when he put the key in the lock. He entered anyway, struck by an unexpected curiosity. 

It was...passably clean, which was a surprise in itself. A sleeping bag was spread out over the mattress, and clean clothes were laid out on it. The next thing that caught his eye was a note propped up on the table. It was from Strauss. A private invitation, written in a familiar cursive script. Anger flared through him, but the Regent had broken no laws in expressing interest in the fledgling. Next to that was a magnetic keycard, which turned out to be a staff card for the Santa Monica aquarium. 

The bathroom door clicked open quietly, and a dark eye peered through the crack, widening when he returned the gaze. The fledgling drew the door open, a towel wrapped around her willowy frame, and considered her words. “I wasn’t expecting company.” 

He examined the fledgling with a critical eye. During that first chaotic night, he had been distracted by other concerns, but he could now appraise her at his leisure. Freshly fed and warmed by her shower, it took little imagination to see her as she must have looked when her heart had still been beating. “Ms Voerman invited me to attend the charity exhibition at Gallery Noir, but it was cancelled at the last moment. A...shame. I understand that several priceless pieces of art were destroyed by a vandal.” 

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “How unfortunate that such important pieces of art were afforded such lax security.” 

He raised an eyebrow. Pushed a little more to see if he could make her squirm. “The security guard has already been fired, of course. I expect he will never find a job again, as befits his incompetence.” 

“That seems harsh.” The fledgling drew the towel more tightly around her. While she was not classically beautiful, she was not unattractive. High cheekbones and that full mouth, currently pressed into an unhappy line. He could see how Rhineheart would have fixated on her slim neck in life, the blood beating so close to the surface. She seemed to want to say something more, but wisely took refuge in silence instead. 

“Perhaps you feel some sympathy for the man, given you still have not accomplished what I have asked of you. Instead—“ LaCroix slipped the aquarium keycard out of the pocket of his tuxedo and held it up between two fingers. 

She made a small sound, bitter and wistful all at once, her eyes fixed on the card. “I like watching fish.” 

“Spoken as if you have time for such frivolity. You do not.” 

She was too young to have lost the habit of sighing. “The warehouse—“ 

“I am not interested in excuses, fledgling. I want results.” The lines of her body were strung taut and he became acutely aware of how vulnerable she was. It did not stop her from staring at him with defiance in the glitter of her dark eyes, even if she drew further into herself, making herself smaller, less of a threat. He turned away, his mouth full of the iron taste of memory. His sire’s gold signet ring gleaming as the blow caught him across his mouth.  _Chien. Je te possède_ . How things might have been different. 

_He_ was different. He would never be weak and helpless again. His sire had taught him that much—and that there were so many better ways to bend others to one’s will. The hand holding the keycard was extended towards her. A peace offering. 

She approached with the furtive movement of a cornered animal and took it from him. “Mr LaCroix.” Her voice was stiff, formal. “I was asked—without a hint of irony—to investigate the presence of an ‘Asian vampire’. He was watching the Kindred in Santa Monica.” She pursed her lips, her eyes darting over his face. “He seemed to be scouting Santa Monica for an invasion.” 

LaCroix felt his teeth clamp together of their own volition. “Where is this vampire now?” 

“Fell off the upper level of a warehouse and broke his neck.” She seemed less than pleased with the outcome of her ongoing survival. 

“I see. It must have been a most unfortunate accident.” As curious as he was about her ambivalence, he was pressed for time. “Do you have any evidence for your claims?” 

“He was...different. He did not return to dust, so to speak.” she said. “And I have his laptop. Someone with the right skills could probably get more from it, but I don’t think he was familiar with the concept of passwords.” 

“You have done well, fledgling.” He picked up the laptop she indicated on her desk, forcing himself to unclench his fists before he did so. The fledgling’s trial was a single warehouse. His was to conquer a city. It remained to be seen if either of them could be reborn from the flames of war. He wanted to tip the odds a little more in her favour, if only because she was showing glimmers of competence beyond any of the sycophants in his tower. “That was a simple enough solution when you had but a single foe, but what if you find yourself in a situation where there are enemies everywhere you look?” 

She looked more perturbed than he had expected, but her voice was measured. “Then...I will have to find another way. Utilise the element of surprise. Find some way to deflect attention from myself.” 

He could not help smiling. Maybe Rhineheart had chosen well after all, even if it had not been purposeful. “One final word of advice: take care not to hunt too close to your haven. Many are those who come to crave the Kiss.” 

“The kiss?” 

“There is so much that you have to learn. The...pleasure of blood cuts both ways.” He took a step closer, pushing back a lock of damp hair before he ran his thumb over the soft skin of her neck, where her pulse would have been. 

She flinched and shrank away with a sharp inhalation. Rhineheart’s doing, no doubt. The Nosferatu had assembled a dossier on her which brought him no closer to understanding why her dead sire had forced the Embrace on her, but the aftermath was not unfamiliar to him. Not that it mattered; his mobile phone was vibrating in his jacket pocket; the car would be waiting to whisk him back to his office, all abuzz with gadflies waiting for him. 

“Enjoy your sightseeing,” he said wryly. “I do hope that you do not intend to linger in Santa Monica for too much longer. When you have completed your labour—I will be waiting in Venture Tower. Good evening, fledgling.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the start of Google Translate French, and corrections are very welcome.  
> Unless Google Translate is way off the mark, Chien. Je te possède. = Dog. I own you.


	6. An explosive beginning

She cinched the straps of her backpack as she walked, ensuring that it was snug against her back. Being blown up by too much jostling was not how she wanted to go, but her next task was to walk into a warehouse containing a small army’s worth of trigger-happy thugs while carrying Astrolite in a backpack, which seemed to be—as Mercurio succinctly put it—suicide.

Could she do it? Should she? She had hardly killed since that first night. Mercurio had been unhappy about the beach house drug dealers surviving their encounter, and perhaps a utilitarian perspective would have demanded that she eliminate the people who destroyed so many lives, although Dennis and his mob were small fish swimming in a big sea. Gimble had left her no choice, and neither did the thugs sent by one face of the Voermans—which one, she would never know. The Asian vampire had attacked after bowing to her, much like a bad _wǔxiá_ movie, both of them immediately recognising the other as alien. Her mission tonight was on an entirely different scale. How many of the people, in the warehouse were stupid kids trying to take a shortcut out of desperate circumstances? How many of them would have been happy to shoot her in the face for their golden ticket? How many lives would she save by destroying those weapons?

By the end of the night, she would be a terrorist. No, not even that. This violence was not in the service of an ideology. It was to earn a few more nights of this existence. LaCroix was her commander in this, and perhaps it was more accurate to call her the newest soldier in this secret war between the Camarilla and the Sabbat.

In her distraction, she did not notice the man until he standing right in front of her. “Pardon me, but we met two nights ago. I was waiting for a tow truck.” She recognised the blue eyes, the suit, and the new pallor. It was Mr I-should-have-bought-a-German-car. LaCroix’s warning had come too late. The man kept babbling, a wild look in his eyes. “I had to come out here again, to look for you. I told Moopsie that I was working late, and for once, that was a lie. Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell her my car broke down again. Would you—would you care to join me in my new car? Or in that alley?”

The Beast stirred, reminding her that she had not fed that night. Her tongue rasped across the roof of her dry mouth. Why not? She would need the strength. “Where are you parked?”

“It’s not far.” He led her to a dark corner in the parking garage, tugging off his wedding ring and carelessly slipping it into his pant pocket. She wondered how much Trip would give her for the ring, and felt a pang of shame. He opened the back door of a gleaming car that smelled of wax and fresh leather, and she slid in, placing her backpack on the floor with appropriate care. He followed her in eagerly, slamming the door shut before pushing her down on the seat with his weight, one hand reaching down between them. “Oh, your hands are cold.”

“I know. I miss feeling warm,” she confessed. “Shh, slow down. Look at me.”

“You’re beautiful. So beautiful.” He reached down to kiss her, his mouth hot and full of life. “I can’t get you out of my head.”

“Look at me,” she repeated. ”In five minutes, you will forget this. You will go home to your wife, and you will be good to her.”

He looked like she had tried to convince him that two and two made five. “I will...forget?”

“Soon,” she promised. “But for now...” She undid the top two buttons of his shirt, stroked the stubbled angle of his jaw, pressed her mouth to it, and worked her way down his neck until his pulse was fluttering under her lips. He made a low, helpless sound, rolling his hips against hers. She grazed his skin with her teeth before she bit down, her world shrinking down to the sound of his heartbeat and the heat flowing down her throat, suffusing her limbs with borrowed life. He slumped against her when she pulled away, his breaths coming slow and hard, sweat cooling his skin. She rolled him off her; he was too dazed with pleasure to protest. “You don’t remember meeting me,” she reminded him, putting the weight of her mind behind the words. “Go home to your wife.”

This time, he nodded, and she slipped out, shouldering the backpack again. She felt good. Strong. Ready to take on the world, or at least a warehouse full of people who thought with their fists. She didn’t need LaCroix to tell her that she could do better than that. They did not need to know that she had ever been there, right until the gunpowder was lit for its original use and fireworks lit the night sky.


	7. The white king moves to protect his pawn

The cab driver pulled up in a deserted road hemmed in by derelict, soot-stained brick buildings. “We’re here.” 

She hesitated, her hand on the door handle. His voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Obediently, her hand opened the door of its own accord and she stepped out, the cab pulling away in pursuit of another fare. This...could not be Venture Tower. Even without having laid eyes on it, she knew that LaCroix’s headquarters would advertise conspicuous consumption. Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by a baseball bat crunching into the back of her head. The first sense to return from the void unfortunately was nociception. Her headache seemed severe until someone kicked her in the gut, quickly reminding her that it was all relative. 

“Let’s drain it.” 

“Let’s stake it and leave it out for the sunrise.” 

“We’re going to have a lot of fun with this one.” 

Three men were standing over her, eyes glowing like embers. Shit. Vampires. Should have known from the force of their blows. 

“Think you could blow up our warehouse and get away with it? Huh, Lick?” Sabbat. Her situation was improving by the second. She tried to uncurl herself, to do anything but lie there waiting for the next blow, but her vision was blacking in and out from the pain. 

One of them laughed, low and guttural. “Let’s pull out its eyes and its tongue and its teeth.” 

“I want its teeth. Camarilla fuck!” A steel-capped boot crunched into her chest, and she cried out as she felt bones snap. 

“Boys, I think we could all use a little entertainment.” A showman’s boast. “Those of you sitting in the first few rows will get wet.” 

So this was how it going to end. She wasn’t going to get the chance to leave LA, to see her parents one last time and make them forget their lost daughter. She tried to speak, to dominate the Sabbat into leaving, but it just earned her another kick in the teeth and a mouth full of blood. 

A gunshot rang out, and the Sabbat vampire who had just kicked her hissed, holding a hand to his head. “Son of a bitch!” 

“Leave.” 

“There’s three of us, Rodriguez.” 

“Yeah.” His voice was flat. 

A snickering laugh. “Yeah, three of us.” 

“Whaddya gonna do? Shoot us?” 

She turned her head painfully in the direction of the person who would either be her saviour or her companion in dying in vain. He casually tapped a grenade on his belt. If it came to that, it was preferable to being slowly dismembered. 

“This ain’t over!” The loudest Sabbat turned back to her, baring his teeth. “We’ll find you. You too, Rodriguez! Nobody messes with the Sabbat and lives.” 

“Keep moving.” 

She tried to peel herself off the pavement as Rodriguez approached. “Trouble sure seems to like you.” His wry smile swam in and out of focus. There was the sound of running feet, and she tried to shout a warning, but her lacerated tongue only managed a choked sound. She need not have worried. The Sabbat vampire was greeted with a revolver barrel to the chest. “Good effort.” A gunshot, and her ears were ringing. “Execution needs a little work.” 

“You look like shit.” He was gracious enough to help her up. 

“‘Nuff blunt twauma will do dat,” she mumbled through her healing mouth. 

He didn’t seem amused, but he didn’t seem like someone who had developed a sense of humour on account of life kicking him in the teeth too many times. “Name’s Nines.” 

“Thanks for the help.” She didn’t bother introducing herself. Kindred as a rule didn’t seem interested in her name. 

“Should’ve been more careful, newbie. This ain’t the burbs.” Nines looked around meaningfully. The dark mouths of alleys everywhere, and every shambling figure in the dark probably a bum, but possibly a vampire. Maybe LaCroix had sent her away for a reason: Santa Monica was starting to look like a bucolic small town. 

The hazy memory of her first few minutes in this new existence took on a new, far more solid form. “I remember you from the courtroom.” His face was no longer twisted in righteous fury, but that piercing blue gaze was unmistakeable. 

He avoided the subject. “Kid, I got things to deal with. Why don’t you pay me a visit ta the Last Round tonight. I don’t know what you’ve heard so far, but it’s time you heard the real story.” 

“I’ll do that.” She would have to go see LaCroix first. He seemed like he possessed a fragile ego. Nines, on the other hand, exuded a certain devil-may-care confidence. 

“This is a mean existence, kid. Stay out of trouble.” He lifted a hand in farewell. She winced as she felt her teeth begin taking root again, and wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth. It was time to go seek a royal audience. 

* 

He did expect the Sabbat to attempt to exact revenge for the warehouse, but he did not think that the fledgling could get waylaid between Santa Monica and Venture Tower. LaCroix pinched the bridge of his nose. “I see. How fortuitous that Mr Rodriguez was in the neighbourhood.” Seeing no need to drag out the conversation, he hung up. 

At what point did things cease to be a coincidence? Rhineheart, who had seemed destined for middle management and petty politics in the Camarilla, Embracing a girl descended from the people who had brought forth the Kuei-Jin. Rodriguez choosing to incite open rebellion over the fate of this fledgling. Strauss sensing power in her, more than her mediocre sire should have bequeathed. The Kuei-Jin reconnoitring Santa Monica despite the truce, until their agent ran afoul of her. Rodriguez saving her, yet again. 

It seemed that everything of note that happened in LA these nights involved her. 

Could someone have planted her? No, no, he doubted it. Rodriguez would not be trying so hard to win her over if she was already in his pocket, and the Anarch way would not appeal to her if she was methodical as she seemed. Strauss would doubtless try to convince her that he was unfit to rule the LA Camarilla, but once again, she would not have needed a handwritten invitation if her allegiance already lay with the blood mage, and Strauss never wholly trusted anyone who was not a Tremere. The Kuei-Jin were sure to take an extra interest in her, but she was Kindred now, and they would despise her as much as they did any other of the blood. 

He was  _not_ going to let any of them claim her. 

Arrangements would need to be made. For her safety, among other things. 

“Smith. The Skyeline apartment will be occupied by tomorrow night. See that it is suitably appointed. Security is of paramount importance—make every upgrade possible. Cost is not an issue. Oh, and the fish tank? Stock it.” 

Another number, another curt order. 

“An agent of mine was openly attacked tonight by the Sabbat. Find me the ones who were responsible, and you will be paid well for your efforts.” 

There was no one to see him smile before he made the next call, save the indifferent stare of the sheriff. 

“Officer Chunk. This is LaCroix. I am expecting a visitor within the hour—you may recall having made her acquaintance a few nights ago at the art gallery in Santa Monica. Pleasant demeanour. Quite tall, slim, dark hair and eyes. She is not unmemorable. Send her to me immediately.” 


	8. The first move

Once upon a time, temples were built atop mountains to be closer to the gods. Skyscrapers were more akin to the Tower of Babel, the hubris of mankind building their own way to the heavens. Venture Tower was no exception, a soulless husk of a hundred floors with a lightning rod for a hat, standing among its lesser kin.

She pushed open the heavy door and was greeted by the sight of the security officer from Gallery Noir, firmly ensconced in front of a sign with LaCroix’s name in garish neon letters, a welcoming smile spreading over the generous expanses of his face. Another carefully measured dose of the prince’s generosity. Did he play these games with everyone?

Chunk pointed her towards the bathroom, and she cleaned herself up as much as possible. The blood crusted in her hair would have to be dealt with later, but she washed the dirt off her face and arms. The building was no less depressing on the inside, all hard angles and polished grey surfaces. Not needing to breathe didn’t help her feel any less suffocated, then she stepped into LaCroix’s office.

It was closest that she had been to sunlight since the vision in the Ocean House Hotel. Warm light from the fireplace and candelabra reflected off elaborate gilt scrollwork adorning the walls. Above her hung a priceless collection of art, some of which looked familiar to even her uneducated eye. It explained why LaCroix had been unimpressed by the vandalism in Santa Monica. Amidst all this light and colour, the prince sat behind a simple desk, dressed in a sharp black suit and grey shirt, apparently ready to attend a funeral. He didn’t seem to notice her approach at first, brow furrowed in concentration as he sifted through a pile of documents. He seemed both very young and very grave, although that may have just been the expression of a man worn down by a Sisyphean grapple with paperwork. Before looking up, he straightened the pile with military precision and weighed it down with an unusual letter opener, its hilt wrought in the shape of an ankh.

“There you are. I was informed of your presence in the building. Since you’re here, I’ll take the liberty of assuming that you’ve destroyed the warehouse...this is correct, yes?”

It was apparent that he was one of those people who liked asking questions to which he already knew the answer. “Yes, that—“

LaCroix did not seem to have acquired the habit of letting people finish what they were going to say. “Most excellent. I had no doubt you’d prove my decision a prudent one. I trust you encountered no...impediments to your progress on account of my personnel?”

She shook her head. “None. None at all.”

“That is the answer I like to hear. You’ve done well, circumstances being what they were. I will admit, not many in your...position would have overcome such a trial. But don’t misunderstand me, it was no fool’s errand.” If he back-pedalled any harder, he would backflip out of his seat. “You may yet prove to be a genuine asset. It’s a bit disturbing, the lack of talent in this organisation as of late. Tell me, what would you say to doing a bit of reconnaissance for me?” She nodded once, which was obviously what he expected. “Excellent. Were you by chance in the military at all? I was an officer myself actually, in Napoleon’s ranks.”

The idea was laughable, but she restrained herself to a small smile. “No, I’m afraid not.”

He pursed his lips. “A pity. There have been whispers, rumours spreading around the Kindred community concerning the Elizabeth Dane, the cargo ship that was towed into port recently. Have you heard of it?”

“Only what’s been on the news.” She tried to ignore the silent, hulking figure behind LaCroix’s shoulder. He did.

“The police are investigating the Dane as we speak. Even the Nosferatu have little information on what’s been found. However, the reason the ship has caused such speculation, is because it was transporting an object called the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Now, I'm not one to predicate a decision based on conjecture, so what I need is fact - and more importantly, I need evidence that the occurrences on the Dane were not supernatural in nature, and in no way relate to this Ankaran Sarcophagus.”

“You seem to favour the absence of a supernatural cause,” she observed.

A crease appeared between his fair brows. “I have enough problems to deal with on a nightly basis. I see no need to wish for more complications in ruling this city, but the more superstitious Kindred are already preaching the advent of the apocalypse. Do you see now why I need accurate information?”

Knowledge is power. “What do you need to know?”

“You have three objectives: One - I want you to examine the sarcophagus for anything unusual; you may sense something peculiar about the sarcophagus. In fact, many Kindred in the city have reported an uneasiness in the air since the Dane's arrival. Do not, under any circumstances, open the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Secondly - the police have begun their investigation; find out what they have concluded thus far. Thirdly - take the cargo manifest for the ship; I want to find out what else it was carrying. The last thing we want is police aware of our existence, so... be careful what you do in front of them. And unlike the warehouse, you cannot wholesale slaughter a ship full of lawmen without consequences. Is this understood?” He leaned across the table.

“I understand. I...will find this task easier than the warehouse.”

LaCroix’s face reverted to his usual displeasure. “It is not. The police officers have the advantage of training and experience compared to the average Sabbat hopeful. Do not allow yourself to become complacent.”

“I simply meant that it’s easier not to kill.” She regretted the words they left her mouth. If he was a soldier, he would expected his minions to do as he said and kill who he wanted.

He surprised her by regarding her with a thoughtful look. “I prefer not to deal in such absolutes unless necessary. Show me that you can be trusted with situations that need delicate handling.” He paused, and a muscle in his jaw flickered before he spoke again with a perfectly casual tone of voice. “Oh, and it has come to my attention that you had an encounter with Nines Rodriguez earlier. The man so does love to throw that cretinous charm of his brashly about. What exactly did Mr Rodriguez say?”

His reaction could be interesting. “He asked me to visit him at the Last Round.”

“Consider it a lesson. You see, we Ventrue sometimes must take it upon ourselves to patronize the rabble and hear them out with a look of genuine concern, no matter how ridiculous their notions may be.” LaCroix was a politician to the core. Seemingly done ordering her around, he sat back in his chair like a king in his throne. “Give my regards to the Anarch community.” When she lingered, he raised a questioning eyebrow. “Was there something else, fledgling?”

“I’ve never been to Versailles, but I imagine that the Hall of Mirrors looks like this.” Versailles was but one of many things that she would never be able to see or do.

He stared at her for a long moment. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I can see why you would think that this room resembles  _Galerie des Glaces_.  It is but a poor shadow, if I am truthful. The age of craftsmen and artists has passed. Now it is all grostesque factory manufactured embellishments, made with thousands of equally soulless copies.”

“Have you ever been there?” She wondered what he must have been like as a young man in the uniform of an officer, wearing arrogance as a shield, and whether the Embrace had changed him at all.

He scoffed, a sharp bitter sound. “You are clearly ignorant of French history. After the revolution, they auctioned off all the royal property. Even the  _fleur de lys_ were chiselled off the walls.”

It didn’t answer her question. “I see. There would be no better education than to learn from one who lived through it.”

“Only if you wish to hear a limited view of what happened.” He regarded her with eyes the colour of glacial ice, and with about as much warmth. “The night grows short, fledgling, and other matters require my attention. Return to me when you have spoken to Rodriguez.”

*

She spent an unreasonable amount of time with the Anarchs. There was a finite limit to which one should indulge the complaints of the rabble, which he took upon himself to point out to her on her return.

Her mouth curled into her enigmatic half-smile. “They certainly don’t lack for opinions.”

“Yes, sixty years of propaganda about ‘living free’ will do that,” he answered in a tone that should have drawn blood. “Surely it would not have taken more than ten minutes before they started repeating themselves.”

She tilted her head. “Nines also showed me the basics of unarmed combat. How to put my weight behind a punch, stances, that sort of thing.”

Of  _ course _ Rodriguez would have liked to give her a hands on demonstration, and he would have sold it to her as his way of looking out for her. LaCroix tried to keep the irritation from his voice and failed. “If nothing else, Mr Rodriguez more proficient in brawling than the average thug, if only because he has had more time to practice.”

“I suppose,” she said mildly, infuriating in her lack of condemnation of Rodriguez.

“See yourself out,” he snapped. “There will be a boat waiting for you at the beach in Santa Monica at sundown tomorrow. Don’t disappoint me, fledgling.”

She twitched her lips in a small smile of acknowledgement, then turned on her heels and left. He glared at her retreating figure striding across the empty floor of his office, her limbs gold in the firelight. When the door clicked shut behind her, he retraced her steps, heels striking the floor in the beat of a march, to the door, to the windows, to the door, to the windows, his thoughts churning. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the rain and black mud on his face, hear the creak of wheels as the guns of the _grande batterie_ were dragged by cursing men. Two centuries had passed, and only now the memories were rising like an inexorable tide. But then why not? An end to the stalemate was fast approaching, brought about by his hand setting things into motion.

Rain was falling on Venture Tower, and Sebastian LaCroix waited for the next move. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that LaCroix’s office would be far more ornate if the game had been made in the last year as opposed to 2004.


	9. Speaking French

LaCroix was on the phone when she entered. He held up a finger, said “We’ll talk about this later,” then hung up and looked at her with an air of expectation. “I don’t have time for a monologue. Give me the...bullet points of what you saw.” The prince did not seem to have recovered from his recent pique.

“Everyone on board was massacred. There weren’t any survivors.”

“And the Ankaran sarcophagus—what did you see?”

“There was blood all over the floor. Handprints indicate it was opened from within.”

“Opened?” There was undisguised shock in his voice, but he suppressed it in the space of a breath. “Let's not jump to conclusions. Give me the manifest and your notes, I'll sort this mess later.”

“Let me know if you need anything else.” She removed the file from her bag and handed it to him after trying to smooth out a dog-eared corner.

He leafed through the documents in the folder with deft fingers. “You know, your demeanour thus far bears similar characteristics to those that rise to the top of this organisation. Stay that course.”

“Thank you,” she said simply. Judging by the tension in his shoulders, it was an unattractive prospect, but she was not about to point that out.

“I have been informed that a ghoul was searching for you.” He did not take his gaze off her scribbled notes in the folder. “Your penmanship leaves much to be desired. The next time you give me a report, I expect it to be typed.”

Mercurio had not mentioned the part about vampiric blood being more addictive than heroin, methamphetamines and nicotine combined. The girl from the clinic had stalked her to Venture Tower, all the way from Santa Monica, and there had been desperation and dependence commingled in her voice. She braced herself for the brunt of his royal displeasure. With any luck, he would be more tolerant than Henry VIII. “I erased her memory and sent her away.”

“Good. Ghouls have their uses, but they require careful management. Some Kindred see the ghouls of others as weaknesses to be exploited. A childe your age hardly needs yet another thing for others to use against you.” He put the file down and rested both hands on the polished table, fingers tented. “It has, however, also come to my attention that the Anarchs and Strauss both have made demands on your time.” There was a note of warning in his voice.

She was still on thin ice. “Both of them asked me to look into the plague. It’s presumably some sort of blood borne virus, if it is being transmitted by Kindred, although cough seems to be a prominent symptom, which means that we should consider droplet and aerosol transmission as possibilities.”

“Hm. I suppose given your background, they could have chosen worse for the job.”

That startled her. “You...know?”

He smiled with genuine amusement. “It’s my job to know. We had to cover up your disappearance, which is difficult in the age of social media. I understand that your family, friends and colleagues from the hospital kept the Nosferatu quite busy.”

She looked down, unable to keep the emotion from her face. “I see. That makes sense. Just...for some reason, I didn’t think that you even knew my name.”

“If you prefer, I can call you Faye.” Her name in his mouth, after so long left unsaid, sent shivers down her spine.

She replied in a quiet voice, “Then what should I call you? Prince? Your Highness? Mr LaCroix?” She tried to say it as it should have been said in French.

His pale blue eyes were fixed on hers. “I have not heard my name said that way for...a long time, and few in this country would recognise it as such. I was not led to believe that you spoke French.”

“I don’t. I only know of a few words.”

“Is that so?” There was a hint of mocking in his tone. “Do enlighten me.”

A foolish answer would have invited scorn, but the first words that came to mind were movie inanities.  _ Au revoir. Merci beaucoup. Je t’aime _ _._ “ _Folie à deux_. It’s a psychiatric term for a...shared delusion, to put it simply.”

The look in his eyes was indecipherable. “ _Folie à deux_... How informative. When referring to me in conversation with others, LaCroix or prince will do. And when we are alone, you may call me Sebastian.” He caught her glancing at the sheriff. “Pay him no heed. When there is a problem that words are wasted on, I send him. The less one sees of him, the better. But if he makes you uncomfortable, he can wait outside.” The sheriff obediently shuffled out.

“I find myself at a disadvantage. You seem to know much about me. Tell me about yourself.”

“It’s common knowledge that I was born in Calais, France over two hundred years ago. When I graduated from the Royal Military Academy, I joined Napoleon’s army. It was shortly after Waterloo when I was Embraced by a Belgian noble. From that time onward, I counted some of the greatest Kindred in Europe as my mentors, and worked toward establishing a Camarilla presence in new territories. In 1930, I came to the Americas and staked power in New York. Soon after, I headed West to claim domain.” From his manner, it was clear that she was indeed receiving the standard spiel.

“What was Calais like?”

Pale eyebrows arched. This was a deviation from the script. “Beautiful, with water everywhere you turn. On a clear day, you can see the white cliffs of Dover across the sea.” His voice was almost wistful, but his mood turned with the speed of storm clouds blowing in from over the sea. “Although I imagine I would barely recognise it now. You were born to such a restless world: so quick to tear down the old, in the name of progress.”

“We do preserve things—to be tourist traps.”

His lips twitched in the manner of someone sharing an inside joke. “You’re not wrong.”

Emboldened by this, she suggested, “There’s an idea: when you get the sarcophagus, set up an exhibition and charge Kindred and mortals alike ten dollars to take a peek.”

He clamped down hard on his laughter, but not before one startled chuckle escaped and she caught a glimpse of his fangs. “That would help defray my costs, but perhaps ten dollars is too generous an entry price, given the headache that this thing is causing me. After all, the Met Gala tickets start from thirty thousand dollars.”

That could feed and home her family for over a year, but she refrained from saying so. She had always been aware that she did not inhabit the same stratosphere as the people who attended the Met Gala. “I’m afraid the sarcophagus seems destined to be quite lonely.”

The moment was broken by the buzz of his phone ringing. He looked at it with a frown. “I must take this call. Report back to me when you have discovered the source of the plague, and do what you must to uphold the Masquerade. I do not want to hear that the CDC have found anything that can be traced back to the Kindred. Oh, and to show my appreciation for your dedicated service to me, I have secured you a haven nearby—in the Skyeline apartment building.” He took a key out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket, placed it in her proffered palm and closed her fingers over it. His hands passed over hers as he did so, and she was surprised to feel calluses on them.

“Thank you, Sebastian.”

“I hope it is to your liking. Good evening, Faye. I will see you soon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being a vampire doctor who is immune to disease is looking rather appealing at present. Stay safe, everyone.


	10. A team building exercise

Being a prince in times of turmoil did not excuse him from the more tedious parts of his job. LaCroix remained the CEO of his eponymous foundation, and the profits helped ensure a fallback from his involvement with the Camarilla. The reams of regulations surrounding business these days multiplied like mice, but the added challenge served to keep him engaged. It simply meant that he had cultivated a group of lobbyists who were rather effective at getting politicians to ensure a word or phrase here or there was changed before the legislation was passed. The expense had thus far proved worthwhile. Nonetheless, it was difficult to concentrate on the game of finance at present, even though he was ready to move significant sums into rare earth mining in China and his longstanding investments in Africa continued to bear fruit. The trail of money would take some time to disguise, just in case the Kuei-Jin came looking. And of course, he would have to consider breaking into technology investments at a substantial scale, rather just the tens of millions that he dabbled with at present. He stared at his laptop before shutting it with a sigh, barely noticing the precisely milled aluminium chassis. Money was straightforward, even with his disadvantage of losing access to Wall Street’s acute fluctuations as he slept through the day. Kindred politics demanded the bulk of his attention—this zero sum game had not become easier over the centuries.

It was a pleasant distraction when phone rang and turned out to have the hapless security officer on the other end. “Uh, Mr LaCroix, sorry to bother you, but I have your friend here, Faye, the assistant art director from Gallery Noir? She says that she has something important to discuss with you, and I knew you didn’t have any appointments, so I just thought I would check if you wanted to see her.”

“Send her up.” He wondered if he was setting precedent by allowing her an audience despite the fact that he had not summoned her, but it had been a few nights since he had any civil conversation.

She arrived minutes later, her quick step still easy to mistake for a march, dressed in her usual outfit of dark blue jeans and a black sweater. “Mr LaCroix,” she said in greeting. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I thought this might be important.”

He stood to greet her. “Speak your mind.”

“You might already be aware, but there’s a sort of vampire in the abandoned hospital close to here. She eats the flesh of the living, instead of drinking blood. She calls herself Pisha.” She made an involuntary moue of disgust.

“No, I was not aware of this...Pisha’s presence in my city. However, I do know of the bloodline of flesh-eaters. They are reviled by civilised Kindred, and with good reason, given their unnatural habits. It does not surprise me that the creature chose to remain hidden.” He would not have allowed himself to be seen tolerating its presence. “Did you glean any information about why it has come here?”

“She says she is passing through the city in search of occult relics, and has offered to trade for items of equal power. The first object she seeks is a fetish statue, that apparently originates from the encounter of a nineteenth century British platoon with a local tribe. It seems the soldiers would go missing and be replaced with these statues.”

“I did hear rumours of similar things when I was in Africa. It’s of no interest to me. And the second item?”

“A tome called the Voce del Morte, which apparently is in the hands of the Giovanni.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I certainly don’t recommend that you seek them out at this Pisha’s request. The Giovanni are insular, incestuous clan that dabble in necromancy and achieved their status as a clan by diablerie. They maintain mansions in most cities, this one included. As long as they mind their own business, I leave them be. Is there anything else I should know?”

She bit her lip, a charming leftover from life. “Pisha ate most of a television crew, and I found this photograph in the apartment of the last man. He was the host of a supernatural television show. It was mostly scripted, but I found this in his apartment.“

LaCroix took the photograph from her. The image clarity was no better than a nineteenth century photograph, but to a Kindred’s eyes, it looked like it was a Nosferatu about to feed. To a prince, it looked like a Masquerade violation, and potential leverage in kind. “The man—where is he now?”

“I erased his memory and told him to leave the city.”

LaCroix nodded before slipping the photograph into his desk drawer. It sounded like someone else’s problem now. “You’ve done well bringing this to my attention.” How hypocritical of the Nosferatu. He would have to wait for an opportune moment to reveal this to Gary; preferably one that would embarrass him in front of the primogen. He drummed his fingers on his desk, considering his options. “It’s considered a slight for the creature to not have presented itself when it came to my domain, but you have my permission to deal with this Pisha. Take care that she does compensate you sufficiently for your efforts. I do not wish to waste resources running her out of town, but should matters change, I want you to come to me immediately. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she said. She didn’t waste words. It was one of her qualities that he appreciated.

“Good.” He studied her face, her gentle eyes belying the sharp mind behind it. “You seem to have become quite adept at using your powers to dominate mortal minds.” Uncannily so. It had taken him years tolearn what she had mastered in a matter of short weeks.

She assumed a submissive posture again, already all too familiar with the hierarchies of predator packs. “It has been a useful tool to help maintain the Masquerade without unnecessary killing.”

He wanted to put one finger under her chin and make her look him in the eyes, but this was not the time. “It was not a criticism. I asked you to prove yourself to me, and you have. There are many situations that call for a scalpel, not a hammer, but alas, for some time now...” he shot a meaningful glance at his sheriff. It drew a small smile out of her, and he continued, “And your new haven: I trust all is to your satisfaction?”

“It’s wonderful—thank you. Books, art, aquariums may seem...frivolous to some, but at least the Embrace hasn’t taken those things from us.” She had never sounded so bitter. “I miss having a hot cup of tea. A fresh baguette with butter. Songbirds welcoming the sunrise. Rainbows.”

It had been a long time since he had even considered any of those things. How many mornings had he sat at that rough table, tore open a baguette hot from the oven and watched the steam curling out of the soft white bread? He dismissed the memory with a shake of his head. That had been over two centuries ago and half a world away. “There are certain disadvantages to our condition, but many advantages, not the least of which is the pleasure of blood—and its availability.”

She stared at him with the uncomprehending eyes of a person who had never known hunger. “It’s hardly easier than just going to the supermarket.”

“Compared to tilling a field or raising a lamb for the slaughter?” He was disgusted by how the ones born in these modern nights could be so entitled. “You’ve been privileged to live in an age of excess.”

“I—you’re right. I spoke without giving it due thought. I apologise. You sound like...you speak from experience.” She could be so earnest.

He had dreamt of baguettes and bouillabaisse the night before Waterloo, tossing and turning in his mud-spattered uniform, hunger hollowing his ribs. “I was no farmer, if that’s what you’re implying. But soldiers march on rations, and sometimes even officers go without. Such is the nature of war.”

This time, she saw fit to utilise her cognitive abilities before her speech. Her dark eyes searched his face as she spoke. “I looked up the Napoleonic wars, after we last spoke—I won’t deny my ignorance when it comes to European history. It must have been hell.”

“War is...sometimes a necessary evil.” He did not care to dwell on it any further. “You are still young. In time, you will acclimatise to a life without baguettes and rainbows. Hedonism is the purview of the Toreador. You and I must concern ourselves with more practical issues.”

Her features smoothed back into detached professionalism, but he thought he saw a flash of disappointment before she covered it. “I had a question—can you tell me about Beckett?”

So even Beckett had taken an interest in his fledgling. “You've met Beckett? Yes, he did pay me the courtesy of announcing his presence in my city. He's lionized in Kindred society - by most. Beckett's the definition of renowned scholar, but he's also a lone wolf, and owes allegiance only to his intellectual pursuits.”

There was little that she did not notice. “By most? What are your thoughts on him?”

He scoffed. “I have much else to occupy my attention. He is a single minded man, and so long as his pursuit of lore does not interfere with my affairs, he may remain in my domain.”

She was a dreamer, that was clear enough. “It must be liberating to live as Beckett does—free to travel and see the world, to listen to stories and to learn of things.”

“Given that you are merely weeks old, I suggest that you avoid wasting your time on pointless daydreams,” he replied, vexation lending acid to his words. “Fledglings require the protection and guidance of elder Kindred, especially if they wish to reach their true potential.” On one hand, she could develop into one of his more capable and willing agents, and on the other, she was already openly betraying that she was less than completely loyal to him.

“Daydreams,” she said in a quiet voice, her mouth quirking at the self-evident joke in it. “What’s going to happen to me? Must I remain in your domain forever? Will I ever get to leave LA?”

“You remain in my domain because I can ensure your safety here,” he said, making his irritation clear. “I fail to see the need for you to leave the city.”

There was trepidation on her face, but she was honest to a fault. “I’m not from LA. I would like to see my parents one last time, and spare them the agony of waiting for a missing child. Help them move on. If there’s one good thing that can come from these powers...” She looked down at her hands, emotion drawing new hollows in her cheeks and between her brows, but her voice was matter of fact. “It’s not without benefit to you: it will make it easier to uphold the masquerade if they stop searching for me because they know that I’m dead.”

It was flimsy justification, but not entirely without merit. “Not until I am confident in your ability to navigate Kindred society. Travelling through the domains of others can be fraught with danger for fledglings. Santa Monica was relatively safe as Ms Voerman had indicated her interest allying herself with the Camarilla, while I claim Downtown and much of the city as my domain, even if the Anarchs would disagree. Although it appears that you have wormed your way into Mr Rodriguez’s good graces, and I doubt he will allow his collection of troublemakers to hassle you.”

She had a faint dimple when she lifted one corner of her mouth. “Some of them would love to take a swing at me regardless. It’s only in their company that I’ve come to realise that I bear an uncanny resemblance to a punching bag labelled ‘Cammy’.”

Her self-deprecating humour must be yet another defence mechanism. “The mildest description that one could apply to the Anarchs would be ‘belligerent’. I suspect that if not for our presence in the city, they would rapidly fall to infighting.”

“Genghis Khan’s solution to that was to conquer the world as a team building exercise.” Her amusement seemed genuine, but the speed at which it had replaced her grief suggested that it, too, was a mask. “I probably shouldn’t suggest that to Nines.”

“Mr Rodriguez does not have the breadth of ambition that you presume. Perhaps world conquest is a task for a later date—what progress have you made with the plague?”

“I’ve found two plague bearers, and I think I’m closing in on the source. They are— were Kindred.”

It was unlikely that she had come up against Kindred younger than herself, and yet she still stood before him. It was entirely possible that they had been caitiff, but those still a significant threat to a neonate. “Then expect more powerful Kindred at the heart of this matter. Exercise caution. If it is necessary, I have the resources to support you, but at the risk of alerting the plague bearers and having them go to ground.”

“I will. Thank you.” She was a sweet, tender thing, and he knew that she would have to excise that part of her if she was to survive.

“Faye. Before you go—do not speak of your parents, or any weaknesses to any other. You have no idea...what they would do with such information.” Blackmail would be the least of it. “Camarilla law forbids contact with anyone from your past life. But serve me well, and I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and her simple gratitude was more excruciating than anything his sire had done to him. “I’ll return when I have more information.”

“I will be waiting,” he said, with a raw edge to his voice that he had not expected.


	11. The concept of loyalty

She wasn’t expecting a crowd when she opened the door to LaCroix’s office—Chunk had sent her up as readily as ever, but in retrospect, he had been waxing lyrical about glorious glazed doughnuts. LaCroix was evidently not a believer in letting his visitors get too comfortable; everyone was standing and the prince seemed to be keeping the table between him and the others. “Sorry. I’ll wait outside.”

She had not raised her voice, but LaCroix heard her from across the room. “No, come in.” He addressed the four vampires standing before him. “I’ve said all that I need to, for now.”

She stood aside to let the others make their exit. Strauss gave her a respectful nod as he passed her, and the Nosferatu in the waistcoat winked, a look of sly knowing on his face. The next was a man with a shock of artfully styled red curls, wearing the sort of smile that usually accompanied the presentation of a dozen red roses. “Ah, so this is the famous fledgling. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Charles Joyce, and I am the—“

“—Toeador Primogen.” LaCroix cut him off. The words seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Joyce was unperturbed. “The one and only.” He offered his hand to shake, but she was caught off guard when he lifted her hand to his lips instead, pressing a cool kiss to her knuckles. “Charmed to make your acquaintance,” he murmured. “You must come and visit me when you have the chance.” In the periphery of her vision, she could see LaCroix crossing his arms. “Farewell, dear girl.”

The elegant woman behind the Toreador looked unimpressed. Even with her high heels, the woman had to lift her chin skywards in order to look down her nose at Faye, which detracted from its intended effect. “Far be it from me to criticise your methods, LaCroix, but the childe is scarcely fit to be seen in public. Does she truly consider it acceptable to walk the streets dressed like a Brujah? And her manners when it comes to addressing her elders are a complete disgrace. What was your lineage in life, whelp?”

She arranged her facial muscles into a the simulacrum of a smile. “Good Chinese peasant stock.” The horrified gasp in response was thoroughly satisfying.

“The fledgling has demonstrated adequate maturity and grace, as far as I’m concerned,” LaCroix said, his voice like silk hiding steel. “Her choice of clothing is...pragmatic, which is a quality that seems unfamiliar to most of your neonates.”

“I trust you won’t come to regret pandering to the plebeians, LaCroix. Good evening.” With an air of grave offence, she stormed out, her stilettos clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.

A muscle in LaCroix’s jaw was twitching. “Victoria Wellesley, the Ventrue Primogen,” he said by way of explanation. “Your introduction to Kindred society has been...highly irregular, to say the least. The Embrace of a new Ventrue childe usually takes place after a rigorous selection process, and a fledgling is subjected to intense training before being allowed out in public.  Dignitas is of paramount importance to those of our clan. If you should encounter her again—do not provoke her. Elders like her have thin skins and long memories.”

“Thank you for standing up for me.” He gave her a brief smile in reply, so short-lived that she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. “You don’t seem to get along with her.”

He looked weary. “We have taken umbrage from each other’s comments in the past, and no doubt will do so again. Still, she is no worse than any of the others; they make quite the parade of malingering mollycoddles.” She covered her smile, but it did not go unnoticed. The corners of his mouth quirked, but his frown returned all too fast. “Each minor problem like a grain of sand, each night I inherit the desert. The primogen are a worrisome bunch devoted first and foremost to the security of their own skin. Which is why they were here. It seems Alistair Grout, the Malkavian primogen, has either forgotten  how to answer his phone, or is missing. The Sabbat's appearance has put the primogen on edge. Grout's mansion is in the Hollywood Hills. I need you to pry Grout out of whatever crack he's crawled into and have him contact us.”

“There’s an obvious joke to be made here...” she trailed off when his eyes narrowed, even though his lips twitched again. “I apologise. It was poorly timed. Tell me more about Grout.”

“Yes, about Grout: as I said, Grout is the Malkavian primogen. His behavior and home are... eccentric, to say the least. He's developed a paranoid bent lately, so you may have to check under every bed in the place for him.”

“I can do that. I also came to report on the plague.”

“Strauss has already filled me in. I’m disappointed that you didn’t come to me sooner.”

“I’m sorry. The plague bearer—Bishop Vick, he called himself—was very quick with a shotgun. I spent the rest of last night in the shower, picking buckshot out of my skin. It took longer than I expected.”

He had been resting one hand on the back of his chair—the knuckles went white. “I...see. Strauss tells me you performed a great service eliminating the plague bearer’s cult. I would see you suitably compensated. I do not intend to give Wellesley the chance to insult you again—I’ll arrange an appointment for you with my tailor.”

She shrugged. “I’ve met her type. She is determined to dislike me, whether or not I wear a tailored suit. You don’t have to bother.”

“You’re my responsibility now. It’s my duty—and my pleasure.” His gaze flicked between her eyes and mouth before he looked away, a strange expression on his face. “Some battles take place in boardrooms, and one must armour oneself in silk. Besides, we can’t have you running around looking like you work for a cut-rate funeral parlour.” The amusement on his face numbed any sting from his words, but with LaCroix, any emotion besides irritation or smug satisfaction never lasted beyond a minute, the former emotion winning the day for now. “The primogen are the representatives of their clans, though more often than not, they represent their own best interests. They stay close to power, but they lack the backbone to lead. Be thankful you don't have to deal with them, at least for now.”

It was as if a butterfly had brushed its wings against her cheek and fluttered out of reach. Instead, it was back to the politics. As Jack said, the stuff that would kill ya. That never changed, human or Kindred. “I don’t envy your job,” she said in a soft voice.

Fair lashes blinked over pale eyes. “It is...a challenge. I’m sure the Anarchs were quick to point out that the Camarilla presence in Los Angeles is quite recent. I’ve been tasked with consolidating Camarilla rule here. In this age of information, smartphone cameras, and weapons of mass destruction, the Camarilla is more necessary than it has ever been. The alternative to thorough secrecy these days... is extinction. As long as we exist, so shall Kindred society.”

“What made you agree to come to LA?”

He let out a mirthless chuckle. “Again, I forget that you have had little do with the Camarilla beyond Strauss and myself. Ah, to have your naïveté—the elders do not ask for your opinion on the matter. However, every time you succeed, you win more prestige and influence.”

“To what end?”

He looked at her as if she had started gibbering like an ape. “To what end? Power is that end. You will not want to fight on the front lines of the endless war with the Sabbat forever, nor to end up in the position where you cannot hunt without trespassing on the domain of your enemies. Power gives you resources to call your own. This tower, for example. The loyalty and service of adjutants.”

She wanted to say that she didn’t work for him because he was the prince, but she was still largely dependent on him—for her haven, for money, for the blood packs that kept turning up in refrigerators or sealed cool boxes. “I see your point. Loyalty bought by power, however, is easily transferred.”

His face tightened. “Perhaps you misunderstand the concept of loyalty.”

“I’m not loyal to power. I place my loyalty in people.”

“Is that so?” He came around the table, moving with the grace of an apex predator. “And in whom do you place your loyalty?” He brushed her chin with the back of a finger, so close that she could see every shade of blue in his eyes. “Does your fidelity extend to any one who shows you kindness?”

She closed her eyes, unable to bear his gaze. “Should it not?”

“You would do well to be more discerning—there is no act or kindness offered without an agenda behind it.” His touch trailed along her jawline, then a hand gripped the back of her neck with just a little too much force to be comfortable. “Rodriguez, for example, sees you as a way to undermine my authority.”

“And why are you doing this, Sebastian?” she asked in a halting voice, forcing herself to meet his eyes. Why did he care that an unwanted fledgling liked watching fish? “What’s your agenda?”

His handsome face was unsmiling. “To ensure the loyalty of my most promising protégée.” Nails dug into her flesh before he released her. “I am more sympathetic to your plight than you might think. The circumstances of my Embrace were not dissimilar to yours: I was not in a position to refuse. Suffice it to say that your first nights have lacked some of the difficulties that I...endured.”

She recognised the shadow flitting across his features, a ghost of old trauma. After an uncertain glance at the unmoving titan of the sheriff, she reached out to curl her fingertips over Sebastian’s, his hand rigid by his side. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There is nothing to say,” he said tersely, neither drawing away from her nor responding to her touch. “You have your task, fledgling. When we hear from Grout, you may come back.” 

She let her hand drop. So it was back to that. “Very well. Good night.”


	12. A sacrifice

LaCroix had believed himself prepared, right up to the moment that she stepped into his office. He almost went to her; instead he forced himself to watch her walk towards him, eyes downcast, arms wrapped around herself in a futile gesture of protection. She carried with her the acrid stench of burnt flesh and hair, and as she approached, he could see a ragged wound across one cheek, the flesh around it blackened and fissured, but it was clear that her arms had borne the brunt of her injuries.

He steeled himself. There was no victory without sacrifice. “The primogen still haven’t been contacted by Grout. I thought I made it clear that you weren’t supposed to come back until we had heard from him.”

She parted bloodless lips to speak, her voice reduced to a monotone. “Grout’s dead.”

“Grout’s dead? What?”

“I think so?” Even in her distress, her mind searched for patterns, inconsistencies. “There was a skeleton, staked and chained, with ash under it. But my...sire and the Sabbat vampire did not leave similar remains.”

He could not afford a single oversight. “We’ll need to retrieve it.” LaCroix did not hide his agitation. A skeleton? That would complicate things. “I’ll send someone.”

“You may not need to bother. A man who introduced himself as Bach set the house on fire. He was looking for you.” A tremor ran along her limbs.

“Bach! Every time I think he's lost the scent... So, Bach killed Grout to draw me out.” Another complication. There were already enough people in this city that wished to see him meet his Final Death.

“Bach didn't know Grout was dead.”

“Bach is a hunter. They stalk and kill our kind to appease their God. But like many mortals, their so-called faith is nothing but a conduit through which they quench their killing urge. Who else could have killed Grout?” And thus the gambit was played, and all their fates would turn upon the words and eyes of an innocent.

Her hesitation betrayed a degree of loyalty to Rodriguez. “On the way in, I saw Nines Rodriguez leaving the mansion.”

He leaned across the table. “Look at me. Are you sure it was Nines Rodriguez? Because if it was, the consequences... Do you know where this might lead? Do you really have any idea?”

“No, and I’m not sure it was Nines either.” The candlelight reflected in her dark eyes looked like embers in a dying flame. “He wasn’t making sense, and his voice sounded strange—almost like there was an echo.”

This testimony would have to be enough—she was past the point that he could push her without inflicting permanent damage. He had no intention of doing that. The primogen did not need to hear her words verbatim. “Under most circumstances, I would call a blood hunt on the murderer immediately. However, the anarchs of this city may interpret such an action to be a declaration of war. I do not want a war with them. This decision will take some time. I need to confer with the primogen on this. In the meantime, I’ve come to a decision about the Ankaran Sarcophagus, and I believe that for the safety of the inhabitants of this city, we need to place the sarcophagus under Camarilla protection until its contents can be confirmed. You're becoming quite indispensable to me, so - out of all my available personnel, I'm going to entrust the retrieval of the sarcophagus to you. It was quietly delivered to the Museum of Natural History a few hours ago. The manifest from the Dane shows there was a small box from the same dig on board, but it was listed as missing. Keep an eye open for it, it may have been overlooked. It's crucial we get the sarcophagus in our possession within the next few hours.”

She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “When must I go?” Her hands were knotting themselves in the fabric of her jumper, white tendons moving in the gaping wounds. He felt like he standing on the edge of a precipice again—the same feeling that he had in the courtroom, studying the planes of her face and asking himself if she was worth it.

As he did in the courtroom, he closed his eyes and exhaled as he came to a decision. As always, the consequences would be his to bear. “Wait outside,” he ordered the sheriff. Picking up the phone, he called his secretary. “Cancel my next appointment.” To the fledgling, he indicated the opulent seats near the door. “Sit.”

She did so without protest. Choosing the couch furthest from the fire, she perched on the edge, straight-backed but head bowed as if in prayer. He went to the concealed refrigerator in the sideboard and poured out two glasses of his finest vintage for them, pressing one into her unresisting hand. “Drink, please.” That done, he took a seat next to her, swirling the blood in his glass out of habit.

She sipped the blood mechanically, her throat working as she swallowed. He too could not concentrate on its terroir—a waste, given the exorbitant cost of importing it from France. He set his glass aside. “Let me see your arms.” This was the price of his war, scorched and carved into her flesh. He could look no more; instead he went to fetch the decanter of blood and filled her glass to brimming. In a voice of bland curiosity, he asked, “What inflicted those wounds?”

“Grout’s test subjects.” Her mouth twisted as she said it. “Grout was a psychopath. I had to kill a few in self-defence as I explored the mansion. But after Bach set the fire...” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “They burned. But they kept coming for me, like rabid animals. I fled. I should killed them all, before the fire. I could have spared so many a death by immolation. You—you’re going to have to cover it up. The firefighters and police will find the remains of dozens of people.” Rhineheart had been right all along. For her to still be able to think of the Masquerade: she was born to be Ventrue.

“Leave it to me. Drink. Your injuries require vitae.”

She gulped down a few more mouthfuls, some of the tension leaving her as her wounds began to knit together. He barely noticed, his attention singularly focused on her beautiful bloodstained lips, her eyes half lidded with the pleasure of blood. He was falling headlong, dragging her into a new world of his making, hoping that he could keep them both alive and untouched by the avalanche. With the lightest of caresses, he touched the wound on her cheek, the curve of her lips, then found that her jaw sat perfectly in the hollow of his palm. They were beyond ambition and consequence and failure. He had never tasted blood sweeter than that staining her lips, and her soft mouth was every bit as exquisite as he had imagined. Even the bitter aftertaste of ash and war could not taint this. He took her in his arms, softly, softly, her lovely face surprised, her mouth shaping his name against his lips, his irrational desire for her lapping at him, rising like the tide. Her eyes were the dark of the night sky, and she let herself fall with him, plummeting into the primordial, unshaped seed of potential that might bud into a universe. Her hands were carding through his hair, pulling at his tie, digging into his back, tangling in his suit jacket, and he was grazing her lower lip with his teeth, cradling her head, gripping her hip, pushing her down, letting his mouth wander down her neck to that tender pulse point and she was too much and not enough and—

He stopped himself at the brink of self-destruction. Every nerve ending was still sparking like a live wire, his body responding in ways that he had thought long forgotten. Faye touched his face with heartrending tenderness and said, “Sebastian?”

It was like facing a sunrise—staring into beauty and doom. He tore himself away, his skin still burning from her touch. To his shame, his voice trembled. “No, I can’t. We can’t.”

“Why?” With one word, she could break him.

“The vultures will tear you apart to spite me. Better that they think you unwanted and easily discarded.” It was the better half of the truth.

“This is a hollow existence if we must forever hide behind masks.” She had already turned her face from him, slender fingers smoothing her clothes. It was just as well. His fragile resolve would not have survived the look on her face as well as the pain in her voice.

He took too long considering his reply. “Only until there is none left who dare oppose us.” She kept silent, for it was not what she wanted to hear. He had to make her leave before he did something reckless. “Here,” he said more brusquely than he intended, “The keys to the front door of the museum. The sarcophagus should be in an examination room of some sort. There's a small security staff on site, but I don't want a massacre. Mortals are just as easy to deceive as they are to kill. I will have someone waiting to help you move the sarcophagus, once you have secured it.”

“Thanks. I’ll try to find a side door if possible. I’ve been to the museum before, and I’m somewhat familiar with its layout.” Of course she was. She seemed to require constant intellectual stimulation. “I need to clean up before I go—I can’t sneak past mortals smelling like this.” Her expression was that of preoccupation, a mind formulating plans and goals, although he hoped he saw a different tension in the set of her mouth.

“There is a degree of immediacy attached to this task. Work fast. And as on the Dane, you are not to open the Ankaran Sarcophagus for any reason.”

“I’ll try not to start the end of the world.” Her tone was dry, but he bristled anyway.

“You would do well to take less heed of superstitions—you have enough real dangers to occupy you,” he snapped. “Beware Bach...it is a misfortune that he has seen you, and if he is anything like his progenitors, he will be nothing if not persistent. My history with that family dates back to Bach's grandfather, who pursued me into Africa, where I killed him. Bach's father tracked me to London to meet his death. And now Bach and the Society of Leopold have followed me across America. They never learn.” He had been much older and much better informed than she when he had first encountered them. Now she was Bach’s only lead in his long quest for revenge. The thought was unsettling.

She nodded, her face soft and unguarded with a trust that he did not deserve. “I must go—the night grows old.”

Impulse overruled reason. “Wait.” He caught her up and pressed his hungry mouth against hers, the world shrinking again to the circle of his arms.

“But you just—“ she mumbled, melting against him all the same.

“A promise. I know you will succeed. It is imperative that the sarcophagus does not fall into the wrong hands. Go, quickly.” Sebastian released her, waited until she had left the room, catching and holding her gaze when she looked back.

The door clicked shut. The prince smoothed his hair back. Straightened his tie. Dusted off his suit. Rang his assistant. “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the night. Summon the primogen. We have much to discuss.”


	13. A gambit

“Greetings, Primogen. I thank you all for your timely attendance. I suspect that you may already have heard the news of the fire at Dr Grout’s mansion. My fledgling discovered evidence that he was murdered.”

None of them looked particularly surprised. The destruction of a haven on such a scale did not generally bode well for its master. Strauss merely sighed and looked over his glasses. “It seems our worst fears have come to pass. Did your fledgling find any leads as to who the murderer might be?” LaCroix wondered if he imagined the emphasis with which Strauss had said ‘your fledgling’.

“She saw Nines Rodriguez leave the mansion as she arrived.”

The leaden silence was broken only by the hollow ticking of the grandfather clock and the crackling of the fireplace. Gary stroked his chin, hideous face set in unusual contemplation. Strauss frowned, hands in the pockets of his tasteless red coat. Joyce seemed the most upset, but then he was probably worried about what war would mean for his little schedule of parties. Wellesley looked displeased, albeit only a little more than usual. “Will you risk war on the word of this illegitimate whelp?” she demanded.

“My fledgling has nothing to gain from lying, and it is common knowledge that she and Rodriguez are acquainted.” Which was precisely why he had chosen her.

“What a shame it is that she had to be the one to witness this unfortunate event,” Joyce said. “I would have liked to become more closely acquainted with her before some hot-headed Anarch cut her head off, but it seems it will be too late for that now.”

LaCroix was not so easily baited. “If any attack her openly, it is simply further confirmation of Rodriguez’s guilt. I did not call you here to discuss the fledgling. We must decide what to do with this information. The law calls for a blood hunt on Rodriguez, but this will be tantamount to a declaration of war.”

“This is folly, LaCroix.” Strauss never raised his voice. “Rodriguez’s supporters will never believe him capable of murdering a primogen. He is viewed with a reverence that is almost religious.”

“Then do you suggest that we simply ignore the Final Death of a primogen?” LaCroix reminded himself not to drum his fingers on the desk. It was merely typical Strauss, the quintessential Camarilla elder. Selfish, disapproving, but lacking any better solutions.

“I advise caution, as I have done many times in the past,” Strauss said. “We may well elicit stronger evidence for or against Rodriguez being the culprit. The Anarchs are not known for their presence of mind, and without incontrovertible proof, this will be seen as Camarilla scheming.”

LaCroix folded his arms. “Judging by the size of the conflagration that consumed Grout’s mansion, I doubt any such evidence will be forthcoming.”

Wellesley’s smile put LaCroix in mind of a venomous insect moving its mandibles. “I can but offer an opinion, for the prince has always made decisions as he sees fit. We must uphold the law. It would be unfortunate for a prince to be perceived to be doing otherwise.” It was no secret that Wellesley coveted sovereignty. She would enjoy watching him fail, all the while whispering his missteps to the rest of the Camarilla. He was committed to his course now. The Camarilla would hear about this within the hour, and if he did not announce the blood hunt soon, he knew to expect unwanted visitors.

Gary chuckled, a low, sinister sound. “What interesting times we live in, boss. Too bad about Grout. Rodriguez hardly seems the type to assassinate someone, after all, he’s more about open defiance, wouldn’t you say?”

LaCroix replied coolly, “I don’t pretend to know what goes through his mind.”

“Grout did nothing to provoke Rodriguez, but the relationship between Rodriguez and yourself is...adversarial, hm? And that poor fledgling—trouble follows her like a lovesick fool.” Gary adjusted his bow tie. “One only needs to keep an eye on her to pick up all the juiciest gossip in LA these nights.”

The prince did not let a muscle of his face move. “These are tumultuous times, what with the arrival of the sarcophagus and the Kuei-Jin migration. I have heard no strong arguments against calling the blood hunt, loathe as I am to do so.”

“It is the privilege of a prince to determine life and death,” Wellesley said, her eyes filled with gleeful anticipation. “It is the burden of a prince to accept the consequences.”

Joyce ran a hand through his hair. “We all must live by our own whims and fancies,” he said to no one in particular.

Strauss was, as ever, playing the disappointed schoolteacher. “As you wish. And may I enquire as to your plans for the sarcophagus?”

“It will be placed it under Camarilla protection as soon as possible.”

Gary looked amused, despite having been the one to provide its location. “Interesting times indeed. Did you know that it’s on old Chinese curse, boss?”

LaCroix ignored him. “If there’s nothing else? I have much to do. Excuse me.”

They filed out, all of them perfectly content to see him the scapegoat should this manoeuvre backfire, even though they would claim credit should he succeed. In the meantime, they would entertain themselves with petty schemes to profit from the chaos that would ensue. The prince checked the time. It should not be too long before his fledgling’s return. He had some accounts to review—an intriguing investment opportunity had come up in Hollywood, but he was too restless to concentrate on columns of numbers. The sheriff took no notice as LaCroix prowled the perimeter of his office, coming to a stop before the windows. The lights of the city spread over the land before him, humanity’s banal attempt to beat back the darkness, unaware of the secret struggles in the shadows. The Embrace honed the vanity, selfishness and dissatisfaction that was so endemic to human nature, except now the stakes had been raised to eternity or an ignominious death.

Once, he had followed an emperor. His reward had been a bayonet to the gut and the promise of a slow, desperate death. Sebastian LaCroix had comprehended power then, cursing the emperor who dined on silver plate before his ambition had destroyed so many.

Two centuries later and half a world away, he looked out into the bleak night at a city ripe for the fire, his own ambition unquenched, the head of a company of puppets—he finally understood the mortal who had led him to his fate.

*

She found Sebastian standing before the great windows, his hands clasped behind his back and posture straight, a soldier at ease. He turned to her only when she was within arm’s reach. His conference with the primogen must have gone poorly; his eyes were the grey of gathering storm clouds. “The folly of leadership is knowing that no matter what you do, behind your back there is hundreds that are certain that their solution is the sounder one, and that your decision was the byproduct of a...whimsical dart toss. I pronounce the blast sentence and I soak the critical fallout. Leadership...I make the decisions no one else will. I wear the albatross and a bullseye.”

“What is this about?” she asked in the gentle tones she would have used with a child.

“The blood hunt for Nines Rodriguez for the murder of Alistair Grout will be called. Rodriguez’s execution is only a matter of time. I have lit the fuse—if a war ignites, it’s my head they will sharpen the pikes for.” The flat of his hand cut through the air following the arc of an executioner’s axe. “At least I can rest easy in knowing that you, my most promising protégée, has relieved me of one encumbrance tonight. Do you need assistance bringing the sarcophagus up to my office?”

There was no easy way to break it to him. “About the sarcophagus... it appears to have been stolen.”

“Stolen?” His face was twitching and she could see the whites around his eyes.

Strauss and Jack were right about how badly he wanted the sarcophagus. “I—“

“Stolen?  How ? Who would...?” There was a howl of despair in his voice, before the fury welled up. “Oh...Gary. Gary, you treasonous maggot. I should have anticipated your treachery, sewer rat.”

As much as she wanted to soothe him, he was ready to lash out like a wounded animal. “Who is Gary?”

“The Nosferatu primogen.” She recalled the Nosferatu in the waistcoat and bow tie, as well as his distinct air of knowing how the cat had swallowed which canary and why. “The Nosferatu were responsible for finding out where the sarcophagus was taken after the Dane, and for getting keys to the museum. They were the only ones who knew! It's obvious to me now, my mistake.”Sebastian seemed to have forgotten she was there, so engaged was he in bitter self-recrimination.

“The Nos—“

He spat, “I want him found! I want him—“ A terrible pause, heavy with malice. “—found. The sarcophagus could be... exploited... causing who knows what catastrophe to this city. If it were to fall into the wrong hands...”

“Why? What do you think is inside?”

He composed himself with considerable effort. “As I mentioned before, my concern is that it contains something supernatural. The city is alight with dread. ‘Perhaps it’s an Antediluvian!’” His voice was mocking, but tight with an unacknowledged anxiety.

“Antediluvian?”

“A joke.” He didn’t look amused. “The Antediluvians are the mythical progenitors of each of the clans for whom they trace their bloodlines, and according to mythology, descendants of Caine, the legendary first vampire.”

“As in the biblical Caine?”

“Yes, the very same: the first kin slayer. Before you put too much stock in it, realize that the church and all of its mythos are blends of Kindred and mortal meddling, whips to regulate weak minds. This is all Beckett's field of expertise. If your paths should cross again, merely ask him.” He looked impatient. “All of this is meaningless unless we recover the sarcophagus.” It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had held her just hours before, but he was still more alive than anyone else she had met in these dark nights, flawed as he was. Arrogant, sometimes condescending, ambitious, passionate, but now she could see the fear running under it all, a desperate man trying to grasp something beyond his reach.

“I’ll find Gary, and the sarcophagus.” It didn’t take a prophet to see where this was going next. Sometimes she pitied him, trapped in this gilded cage atop his ivory tower, with so few that he dared to trust.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “The Nosferatu lurk in the filth below the streets of Hollywood, but not even I know just where they hide. Hollywood is, unfortunately lacking in any Camarilla loyalties. Hollywood’s Baron is an Anarch named Isaac. Isaac’s more civil than the Anarchs downtown, but...nonetheless, he wears his mistrust of me on his sleeve. He may know how to contact the Nosferatu. Find Gary and get him to talk. That sarcophagus could be used against us. Do not come back until you have it. Now, I must announce the blood hunt - and bear the brunt of all consequences.” He had already settled a marble mask upon his face, ready to face the world, and she could no more hold him than she could trap a star between her fingers. He addressed the sheriff. “Escort her out.”

The sheriff shoved her with a hand the size of her torso when she tried to look back. He was rifling through a stack of papers, sparing her a glance before returning to his work, his eyes once again the colour of glacial ice. Sebastian was gone, and only the prince remained, brooding on betrayal and consequence.


	14. Hollywood

VV’s latest literary effort did not suggest that she was likely to ever equal Plath or Dickinson, but she did have an eternity in which to practice. But of course, VV’s proclaimed adoration meant little to Faye—VV was not her type, and her affections were either contrived or lightly given. The latter accusation made her a hypocrite, given her current state. She reread his latest email, lingering on the last words :  We will no doubt be seeing each other soon.

This was stupid. She was, most definitely, one of those people who did not believe that one could truly love, without knowing someone for months, sometimes years, and being acquainted with their qualities, good and bad. This was a foolish infatuation, which made her regret her previous consumption of romantic literature and films as well as the subsequent conditioning that accompanied it. This unlife was lonely and LaCroix just happened to be the one that she saw the most, on account of her status as his newest minion. He probably enjoyed the novelty, much like a cat with a new toy.

She slammed her laptop shut. CEOs got fired for messing around with staff, but she suspected that human resource policies didn’t have quite the same clout in the upper echelons of Camarilla society. And this  was messing around. It had to be. He had told her himself: every kindness shown had an agenda. She could not think of a single person who had not urged caution where LaCroix was concerned.

If this was a merely a game, he was a damned good player: global poker champion good or Academy award winning good, perhaps both. The way he almost smiled sometimes. The look on his face as he had surveyed her injuries after Grout’s mansion. The way he had kissed her. The raw emotion in his eyes, before he had pushed it aside in favour of playing prince again. She may not have known him for very long, but she guessed that she knew him better than most, and she was curious to see what else lay below the surface of his ambition and arrogance.

She looked up at Venture Tower before she got into the cab, her heart yearning towards its golden pinnacle, her way barred by a rotund security guard and the ego of his employer.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Away,” she replied, and as the cab drove on, she hummed under her breath, “ _ And a big yellow taxi took my girl away...now don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone? _ ”

*

She had never been comfortable in clubs. She disliked drunk people. She abhorred loud music. That, however, was not enough reason to bring a sword along. The weapon in question was poorly concealed under the leather trench coat of a man standing squarely in front of the door of the Asp Hole—he really should have taken lessons from Chastity, who had produced a katana from...somewhere, before charging at her with it. It seemed safe to assume that being fired by VV had inspired the stripper to find a more discreet hiding place.

Faye slipped past the hunter, trying to look like any other party animal. Did all hunters possess the ability to identify Kindred on sight? Bach had cursed her without hesitation and Chastity had attacked her immediately, even though the face was looked back at her in the mirror did not look too different to what she remembered, apart from the pale lips which were easily disguised with a few licks of lipstick. In any case, they were surrounded by witnesses here. She chose to mingle, and was promptly snubbed by a blonde woman before listening to a generic Hollywood hopeful brag about his role an an extra in a Friggin’ Chicken commercial. Hoping that was enough to throw the hunter off the scent, she skipped upstairs in search of the elusive Ash Rivers. A gaggle of women were mooning at an indifferent figure leaning on the balustrade, who on closer examination, turned out to be the man himself, looking exactly the same as he did in Negative Zero, broody haircut and all. It was not so long ago that most girls she knew—and some of the guys—had a crush on Ash. 

Seeing him in the flesh sent a jolt through her: it was not the first time. He had been at the trial. “Ash?”

“Present.” He barely made eye contact, instead continuing to survey the club.

The presence of the hunter was probably distracting. “Do you know anything about a snuff film?”

“That’s street trash. You want the Sin Bin. Anything else?”

“Is something wrong?” She let her own gaze dart to the hunter at the entrance.

He didn’t seem to notice. “To say yes would be an understatement. What do you care anyway? I could just do it...just walk out of here and into a legend. Maybe I live, maybe I don’t. What’s the difference?”

The Embrace seemed to imbue some people with a penchant for dramatic monologues. She asked again gently, “What are you talking about?” 

“Hunters - in front, back, inside my club. I try to leave, they'll move on me. So, I had to ask myself, if I go out there, am I prepared to die? How many could I take out before the killing stroke, huh? Two? Three? I could just walk out there, right now, blaze of glory. The end. And you know what? Knowing that... it doesn't bother me. And I guess the only reason I haven't walked out yet is because I'm trying to figure out why it doesn't bother me.” His face was calm, but there were turbulent currents beneath the surface.

At the trial, he’d been standing with Nines, ready to take on LaCroix over the fate of a girl that he didn’t even know. It seemed appropriate to return the favour. “Maybe I could help you.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, presumably no stranger to Kindred politics by now, especially with a Baron for his sire. “Did Isaac send you?”

“Do you know Isaac?” She already knew the answer to that question, but she wanted to hear it from him. It was, to her discomfort, the sort of thing that LaCroix would have done—keeping her cards close to her chest to extract the maximum amount of information.

“Isaac’s a gnarled old tree that wrapped its roots around this city years ago. He’s a relic of an age long since past. He thinks he gave me everything I have...but all he gave me was a curse.” It sounded like true bitterness ran beneath his words.“If I walked out right now...it would break Isaac's heart. It's good to know some good would come from my death.”

“You don't like Isaac?” Curious. Isaac’s feelings were rather clear.

Ash made a dismissive sound. “That story would take too long to tell. Suffice it to say, we haven't seen eye-to-eye on too many things lately, and it's pissed off Isaac to no end.” 

Their social media relationship status would be ‘it’s complicated’. She enquired, “For instance?”

“He kept saying I should keep a low profile. He kept saying I was attracting too much attention to myself.”

She sighed. “You should have listened to him.” The latest car crash had made the news while she had been in Santa Monica. No wonder the hunters were on to him.

“You don’t know me. I can’t sit in an office all day and play Hollywood from the shadows - that’s Isaac’s thing. I’m an actor - I was an actor. I...I-I don’t have anything anymore, except this club, and some fame, and this curse.” The mask of indifference cracked, and there was despair beneath it.

“You don’t like being...you know?” That was interesting. Every other Kindred that she had met seemed resigned to it at the very least. Most revelled in it: take Jack happily cracking spines and jawbones for the last few centuries. She didn’t share Jack’s opinion, but she had things to do before she could consider any other options.

“I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask Isaac to save my life. Maybe I wanted to die. I was having fun, dammit! I was alive! Who the hell gave him the right to deny me that? I can't act anymore, I can't love anymore; all I can do is... fade into obscurity.” Dante could not have designed a more fitting hell for him.

“You will have to give up your fame, but I don’t think that you should give up on love.” If she ever did, she would wait to greet the sun.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but things don’t work that way any more,” Ash replied in an acerbic tone.

Sebastian had apparently missed that memo. She would have blushed at the thought, if she still could. “There’s more to love than ‘things working that way’. I have people that I still care about from...before. I’d like to make them think that I died quickly and peacefully, and spare them the agony of never knowing.”

Ash looked somber. “A noble sentiment, if true. What the hell, then, would be your motivation to help me?”

“If I can help people, I do. And you need some help.” She made sure she had his full attention. “In a courtroom, not too long ago, you showed me that you would do the same.”

He smiled for the first time—a smile that had once been on billboards. “And what do you propose we do?”

“I could help you get out through the sewers. We might have to fight.”

Ash looked her up and down dubiously. She didn’t blame him. She had taken a couple of martial arts classes and had always given up after a couple of sessions and once, a broken toenail. “You sure about that? I don’t know that you even out the odds a whole lot, but just maybe we’ll make it out alive. Are you ready to get your teeth wet?”

“Lead the way. Try to act casual. We’ll talk strategy somewhere more private.”

He slung an arm around her and leaned close to mutter, “Acting was the one thing I was good at. If I make it past the hunters, I’m getting the hell out of town.”

“Good idea,” she murmured. The group of women who had been hoping for Ash’s attention shot her looks that the Ventrue primogen would have applauded. Ash never took his eyes off her as he led her down the stairs, showing off the charm that had made him Hollywood’s darling. Like a true gentleman, he held the back door for her and steered her through with a hand on her waist. She saw the man hole immediately, and was already lifting the cover when he closed the door. Ash hesitated, his throat working as he swallowed, then he slid down the ladder. She wasted no time in following him into cover.

At the bottom of the ladder, she held a finger to her lips, listening. “Clear for now,” she whispered. “Can you fight?”

Even in the darkness, she could sense his uneasiness. “Not as well as a trained killer.”

“Use the blood, Ash. We’re stronger. Faster. Tougher. We’re not the monsters that they think we are, but I refuse to let them destroy us for simply existing.” She slipped her handgun out of her satchel and offered it to him.

He shook his head. “I’ve never used a real firearm.”

“I wish I could say the same.” She clicked off the safety catch.

The worn halogen lights installed decades ago flickered on. They exchanged glances. “Time to move,” she said quietly. “Stay behind me. Ash—we’re going to make it out.”

“I hope you’re right, Faye.” He smiled at her surprise. “There’s not one of us in this city that doesn’t know your name by now. I’m the one that got you into this mess. We’ll walk side by side—we’ll come through this together, or not at all.”

It was not possible to move quietly through running water, human or vampire. That didn’t mean that the Embrace had been without benefit: animal instincts sent her barreling into motion before her conscious mind caught up. The first shot chipped the bricks behind her head as she ducked. The primal fight or flight instinct kicked in, far more potent than it had been in her life of a sedentary human, but she didn’t let it overtake her. She spoke a single word, powered by her blood. “Sleep.”

The first burly man obeyed because it was an absolute command, slumping sideways onto the wall. His companion shouted in alarm, and she gave him his orders in turn. “Freeze.”

Ash landed a punch on the second man, but his limbs remained locked, unable to even flex his trigger finger. The actor made a sound of surprise, then jerked his head at the open door. “Come on. We can keep moving.”

“No.” She put her hand over the gun of the frozen man, aiming it at his unconscious friend. “You don’t have to watch,” she said to Ash. Killing out of cold necessity was no better than killing in the heat of a fight.

She didn’t care to see his horror. Instead, she helped the trembling, twitching trigger finger. The blood pulsing out of the wound was arterial, as she had intended. His trance over, the wounded man began groping in the sewer water for his gun, but Ash kicked it away from him. She advised him, “Feed if you need to, before he bleeds out.”

Her control over the remaining hunter was slipping, but she assisted him with his aim again, this time pointing it at his femoral blood vessels. One more shot—still plenty where that came from. She took her own advice and guided his bulk to the floor as she sank her fangs around the thick sinew of his neck muscles, finding his carotid artery and refreshing her strength. 

She made sure that she stopped before the life drained completely from the hunter, dropping him onto the slick concrete as his heart stopped. She checked that her feeding wounds were gone before she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She had never fed in front of another Kindred before this, aside from the blood pack and wineglass with LaCroix. Ash was politely averting his eyes, but his lip was curled with disgust. It was deserved. She had killed with premeditation, with the intent of concealing their involvement even before the first shot was fired. Had this darkness always been inside her? What had happened to the girl who had once sworn the Hippocratic oath?

She shut her eyes. For the Masquerade. The things that people could do in the service of an idea, or because someone else told them to do it. The things that people could do to preserve themselves.

“I’ve never killed anyone.” Ash nudged one of the hunters with his foot. “I’ve never even seen a corpse except at funerals. My grandmother, my parents. Just pale husks, shut in a box.”

“I’ve seen death—not just for the reasons you might think.” How many times had she certified that someone was dead? Death from disease, drugs, accidental trauma, trauma at the hands of another. “I have killed to protect myself. Sometimes, it was to protect others as well. We should go.”

They crept on, encountering a few more small groups that they dispatched in much the same way, apart from her making sure to prioritise the sword wielders. They fell unconscious. Froze up. Attacked each other. The bodies left in their wake could have been victims of a gang war, and this was true when viewed in a certain light. After a few hunters dramatically burst out of a wall, they came to a large maintenance area that joined onto a subway line, trains roaring past with unnerving frequency. There were hunters moving in and around the support pillars of the tracks. She divided and conquered with her powers, the sounds of their deaths drowned out by the trains. After that, there was nowhere to go but up, and she tried to sneak up the scaffolding, but took two crossbow bolts to the abdomen when she cleared the ledge. When the hunters charged her with blades in hand, she reminded one that like many of his friends, he was about to have a fatal seizure, and he dropped easily. The last one coming was the one who had been in Ash’s club, and she took Nines’ advice. Let him come in for the attack first. Spun on her heel, caught his sword arm and brought it scything back towards him, biting deep into his side. The Kiss was a mercy that he probably didn’t deserve.

Ash’s presence made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as he approached, making him seem beautiful and terrible all at once, an extension of the allure that had so captivated Isaac, only now with a Kindred’s powers strengthening it. “I think that’s the last one.” He opened his wallet and handed her a thick bundle of notes. “Here, this is for your troubles.”

She hesitated before she accepted, surmising that he was considerably wealthier than she was. “You didn’t have to, but thanks.”

“You know, I only lived in Hollywood for ten years; I wonder how long I’ll live on in her after I go.” He hummed thoughtfully.

“As long as the world as we know it lives on.” Negative Zero regularly made it to the lists of best movies ever made, despite the nonsensical title, and was already considered a classic.

Ash cocked his head. “It was as far as I could fall; it was as low as I could go - way past oblivion to a point only described as...’negative zero’.” It was exactly like the movie, except for his smile as he ended his performance with a flourish and a bow.

“And...cut!” She brought the edge of her hand down onto the other open palm with a grin.

“And so it ends. My final turn upon the stage.” He exhaled a slow breath. “Time to fade into obscurity.”

“Anonymity isn’t as bad as you think. No paparazzi, for a start.”

He laughed. “Always look on the bright side, right? Tonight, I have killed instead of being killed. I have survived. And maybe a part of me did wish this cursed existence to continue, even if I don’t know what comes next. Love? You said that you had people you cared for, from before all this. Tell me then...have you met anyone in these nights that you care for? That you could love?”

She thought of a man atop a tower. A prince compelled to show mercy. A politician vying for influence. An employer rewarding his staff. A leader confiding his burden. A man afraid to feel. Her fingers passing through his hair. His desperate mouth on her skin. His hands, gentle and curious.

“Could monsters like us ever be loved? Do we even deserve it?”

She blurted her answer. “Yes.” She chose to believe. “Then and now, we loved and can love. You can’t help who you love, whether or not they deserve it. I love people for what they are and despite what they are. I love them for what they were and what he could be.”

Ash’s smile was sad. “I hope that whoever he is, he realises how lucky he is, and that he is deserving of your love.” She put a hand to her mouth, having said too much. “Isaac always said that VV was the most alive of all of us. I think he’s wrong. Perhaps it’s because you’re still too young to have been numbed by the years and the manipulations of elders. You should have been one of us, Faye. I hope that you never let the Jyhad extinguish your light.”

“I hope we both find peace,” she said softly. “Farewell, Ash. Be careful.”


	15. The king leaves himself open

He had not recognised it at the time, but she had carried the fire with her and he had not been spared the touch of flame. It smouldered in him as he gritted his teeth at the incompetence of his staff. None of the vampires or ghouls in his employ could find their noses without a mirror, much less a sarcophagus or a single Nosferatu. The sight of them sickened him: petty scheming sycophants, wanting no more than the next promotion or the next sip of vampiric blood. He regretted not siring before, for then he might have had more than two competent agents. He could have spent the next century training some childer to serve him, but that would have been another century under the thumb of some odious elder. Perhaps even that would have been preferable to these hapless toadies. Tasks as simple as spying on the Downtown Anarchs, ingratiating themselves with minor local politicians, procuring weapons and vitae, arranging financial transactions with law enforcement and border security—even these were bungled to embarrassing degrees. The eruptions that followed these were merely the inevitable release of escalating pressure. He shouted, he threatened, but they just slunk back to their havens for the day, and then it all began again.

The unrest was building, and the first skirmishes were played out by ghouls and neonates. She was deep in Anarch territory night after night, but better in Hollywood than Downtown. Abrams kept a stranglehold on the district, and no one there owed any particular allegiance to Rodriguez. The lack of contact from the rest of the Camarilla was foreboding, but he was past the point of caring. The elders were indifferent, and their only pleasure in his success would have been not having to bother find another fool to replace him. It was out of his hands, and the game before him demanded his attention.

So he tried to concentrate, watching his many enemies with his dullard personnel, but he felt the lick of flame at the slightest reminder of her. Every time he looked at his emails. When he received a sizeable invoice from his tailor. When he signed the purchase documents for Cafe Cavoletti. As he retired to his penthouse for the day and emerged by night, he knew she was doing the same, not two blocks away. And still—wretched silence.

Then, out of the blue, during a meeting with Strauss, his phone rang and it was her.

He walked out of his office, finding a side room in which to take the call. “This had better be important,” he said. By now, he told himself, cold had replaced the heat that she had stirred in him. It was a foolish obsession, better suited to a Toreador or Brujah than to a prince of Ventrue blood.

“Mr LaCroix?” she asked, using the American pronunciation. “I’m at 609 King’s Way. The rival company has left quite a mess—the ones who like the Black Sabbath?”

“What—“

“We’re going to need a cleaning crew here. Industrial strength.” He could hear the strain in her voice. “You may need to work something out with your business contact in Hollywood. I’m going on to find your friend Gary. In case I don’t come back, you need to know that there was a deranged member of our community here, who is into extreme body modification. He wasn’t happy to see me. He made himself scarce after we had a little disagreement.”

Sabbat? A Tzimisce? She was too wary to speak plainly. “It sounds like we need to talk. I’ll send someone to pick you up.”

“I don’t think I can wait. It sounds like he was hassling Gary, and there’s still some of his...pets around. Wish me luck.”

“Faye.  _Faye_ . Listen to me. Just stay where you are.” Dread was rising in the pit of his stomach. He had sent her into the jaws of danger. It wasn’t meant to be like this. He had assumed that Gary would seek her out at some point, hoping to use her against him, and that would be her gateway to contact with the Nosferatu.

“Remember what I asked, about leaving this place. Goodbye, Sebastian. I hope I see you again.” Her voice was wistful, then the line went dead.

Sebastian swore in the absence of watching eyes and gossiping tongues. He fumbled with his phone, pulling up Abrams’ number.

“Ah, it’s LaCroix himself. What could a prince want with a humble baron like me?” Abrams’ tone was mocking.

“My agent just called, requesting a cleaning crew in King’s Way.” He kept his voice as smooth as he could. “I am calling to inform you that I will make the relevant arrangements. Before that, I would appreciate clarification on what  _exactly_ you delegated to her.”

Abrams laughed with obvious delight. “Ah, made it, did she? I expected that I would be calling you in a few nights to tell you that you needed a new leading lady. She’s a good girl. She deserves far better than you.”

“Abrams,” Sebastian grated. “What did you make her do?”

“Looked into some very tasteless film production, that’s all. It’s all relevant to finding Gary. Should I expect to be seeing her soon?”

His nails scraped against the smooth body of his phone, and he hung up without replying. What could he do? She would have a half hour head start on anyone he sent, and Abrams had no reason to pursue her. She was on her own. He called another number. “Get the cleaners to 609 King’s Way. I expect a report on your findings within the hour.”


	16. The cost

She kicked the door shut, set down her backpack after storing her shotgun and handgun in the trunk, then stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a pile by the door. It was possible that they were beyond salvage, but she could run them through the washing machine two, maybe three times, and see if she could wash the blood and sewers out of them.

There was one last blood pack in the fridge, which she drained without a second thought. It was not nearly enough to satiate her, but at least the hunger was no longer maddening. She would have to hunt tomorrow; daybreak was approaching. As she slurped with the grace of a distracted toddler, she tapped out a quick text message to Sebastian.

_ Need to update you. Do you have time tomorrow? _

That done, she stepped into the shower, watching the dirty water spiral down the drain as she scrubbed her skin. It all made sense now. There had been the odd report on the unusually high numbers of missing people in LA, and speculation that a serial killer had been targeting pregnant women. She was numb for now. Too tired for tears, after two days spent huddled in old sewer offices and control rooms, hoping that the monsters too fell dormant when the sun crossed the sky, and three nights spent with a gun in her hands, trying to aim at the newest nightmare creature to descend on her with claws and teeth, hoping that this clip of ammunition was not her last.

When she eventually emerged, her skin still crawling with remembered horrors and still cold to the core, her phone screen informed her that she had missed five calls from Sebastian. Damn. He wasn’t going to be happy. After a moment of weighing up how much she wanted to deal with it right now, she called him back.

His voice would have made an Arctic wind seem warm and soothing. “Come to my office now.”

“It’s almost sunrise.”

“When I give you an order, I expect it to be obeyed.” It took very little imagination to visualise the look on his face.

“I won’t make it to the tower and back home before dawn. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow night.”

He was rather skilled at hearing only what he wanted to. “I expect you here within twenty minutes. Come directly to my office when you arrive.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

She went back into the bathroom, towelling off her hair, and the face looking back at her in the mirror was the Cammy bitch, also known as the poster girl for Camarilla benevolence, newbie, kid, suckhead, neonate, lick, leading lady, Cainite, LaCroix’s girl, and most importantly, fledgling. The sun would rise in less than forty minutes. She ran some lipstick over her pale lips, lest she startle some mortal. The only clean things left in her closet were her newly acquired tailored creations, which were certainly not suited to her current unlife as errand girl extraordinaire, with a side of Jyhad foot soldier. She pulled on a delicate silk blouse and a pencil skirt, then ran down the fire escape in her worn ballet flats. The walk to Venture Tower didn’t take long, and Chunk yawned with the range of movement of a double hinged jaw when she entered. “Morning, missy. You and Mr LaCroix are sure up late, or early. He said to send you straight up when you got here.”

The dull grey marble of Venture Tower had never looked so marvellous. Safe from the bipedal torsos, shoulders and arms repurposed into legs, teeth broken and remoulded into fangs. Safe from the spider creatures, formerly pregnant bellies slack where foetuses had been ripped out. Safe from the heavy walkers spitting acid, bullets barely piercing their thick hides. Safe from Gary’s laughter from the shadows, the implication that he was fully capable of snapping her neck before she even knew he was there, away from the domains of everyone who pronounced her welcome.

She was safe here, in his domain.

He was waiting for her alone in his office, the sheriff nowhere to be seen. He had been Embraced before life had worn its cruel tracks into his face, but she could see the strain around his eyes. He said nothing for a long moment after she had crossed the floor and stood in front of his desk, the wooden structure standing between them like a barricade.

“Well?” He broke the silence with the voice of an impatient parent, awaiting a confession from a contrite child.

“I don’t have your box.”

“I surmised as much.” The years had taught him to wield words like blades.

The grandfather clock ticked and tocked, pendulum scything through the tense air. “There was a flesh-shaper in Hollywood, who adorned himself with the crest of a Triceratops.”

“Triceratops?” His voice contained equal parts incredulity and irritation.

“A dinosaur—herbivorous, ironically. You would understand, if I showed you a picture.” Her limbs were leaden with fatigue. “He killed, and reshaped the fallen into monsters. He claimed he was not from here, but that he carried out the will of the Sabbat.”

“Don’t waste time on meaningless details. A flesh-shaper?” His frown deepened. “It must have been a Tzimisce. That would match reports of the house interior.”

“Furniture made of flesh and bone.” Hunger morphed into nausea at the thought. “He disappeared after we fought. I think he will be back.”

“We will deal with it later,” he said, face pale and grim. “Did you find Gary?”

“Yes.” She didn’t think that LaCroix needed to know that Gary had indicated an inclination to stick her face in a piranha tank. “I need to find a missing Nosferatu agent in Chinatown for him. I frequented Chinatown in life. The chance of a Masquerade violation is high.”

“Chinatown?” A muscle in LaCroix’s jaw twitched. “The Kuei-Jin control that district. They are led by Ming Xiao.”

“Ming Zhao?”

“Ming Xiao. The Kuei-Jin arrival in LA was bloody—the Anarchs tried and failed to fight them off. As you discovered, they are always looking to invade Kindred territory. You must be careful. The blood in your veins makes you one of us now, regardless of what you were in life. I hope you’ll be no more than a curiosity to them, but...” His voice trailed off as he paced, as restless as a caged lion.

“You’re afraid,” she observed.

“You should be afraid!” He rounded on her with a snarl. “Chinatown is no longer safe for you. Do you think it’s easy to capture a Nosferatu? And notice that Gary himself continues to hide in his filthy sewers, and he sends you,  _my_ fledgling, into enemy territory. I thought that Strauss and the Anarchs sending you after the plague bearers was bad enough, but this...he’s no better than Abrams, sending you after a  _Tzimisce_!”

“You sent me to the Sabbat warehouse, to the Elizabeth Dane, to Grout’s mansion, to the museum—“

“If you think that any of those compare to a Tzimisce or to Chinatown, then you’re more of a fool than I thought.” The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees. “Buildings full of mortals, paying a house call to a primogen: these are all menial tasks for a childe.”

The insult was too much, after all she had done for him. “And where did blowing up the Sabbat warehouse land me? In an alleyway with three Sabbat waiting to kill me slowly, if not for Nines’ intervention. Oh wait, that was just the second time Nines saved my life. You would have had me executed that night, in the courtroom, right after that bastard who took everything from me!”

“As was my right!” He was so close that she could feel the heat from his body. She had never seen him so furious—even his usually pale face was flushed. His voice was low with menace. “I am the prince of this city. I enforce the laws of the Camarilla. The penalty for opposing me is being staked to an east-facing wall and left for the sunrise. If you’re so enamoured with Rodriguez—with a  _murderer_ —then go. Call for him, see if he’ll brave a blood hunt to come to you.”

The backs of her thighs bumped into the desk—she had been backing away without knowing it. “He never asked anything from me, and by my word, he is condemned. I told you that something was not right. You did not even consider any possibility but his guilt.”

“He fled before I called the blood hunt. Does that suggest that he was wrongly accused?” LaCroix bared his fangs. “Get out of my sight. Go to your precious Rodriguez—I care not.”

“Then who will find your sarcophagus for you?” she riposted.

“You—“ For possibly the first time in his life and unlife, LaCroix was at a loss for words. “You flatter yourself, if you think yourself so vital to me.” His words were thin, and they both knew it.

She went on the attack. “Then why are you afraid? Why call me here now? Nothing we’ve discussed could not have waited until tomorrow.”

“What do you want to hear? That I should never have sent you to Hollywood?” He reached for her face with one hand, but before making contact, curled it into a fist and jerked it away, as if from a flame. “I should never have sent you away. The last few nights, since you called...all I could do was wait. I can’t...be objective with you.”

“Sebastian—“ At the sound of his name, something in him seemed to snap.

“I had to see you. I want you here. I want you close to me.” Strong hands encircled her waist and lifted her onto the desk, his lips crushed against her cheek. “I want your loyalty. I want  _you_.”

She laughed carelessly as his mouth travelled down her neck, one of his hands tugging at her tucked blouse. “I was told that vampires don’t...” She inhaled sharply when he hitched up her skirt. “Mercurio said—“

He paused at that, utterly bemused. “What made you think that I would be inclined to share the truth with Mercurio?” She shrugged in reply. The sight of him with pupils dilated, neck tie undone by her hand, fair hair falling over his face, was very distracting. Sebastian nipped her shoulder, not breaking the skin. “Why were you even discussing this with a ghoul?” he muttered, vexation not breaking his concentration.

“We were talking about Jeannette Voerman.”

He rolled his eyes even as he lifted her hips to pull her closer. “Ms Voerman is hardly typical of most Kindred. Faye—if we are going to spend our scarce time together discussing her proclivities, I am going to be most displeased.”

“You were the one who asked,” she pointed out with difficulty, preoccupied by his lean body pressed against hers. “Sebastian, the sun will rise soon.”

He groaned as he set her down before fumbling in his desk drawer for a remote control that activated metal shutters outside the windows. “I had the guest quarters prepared for your disposal,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, before he leaned in to whisper to her, his lips tickling her ear. “But stay with me today. Please.”

“Are you sure?”

He stared at her with wide eyes the colour of a spring sky.“Yes. A thousand times yes.” Then he shook his head and laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “I tried to let this go, you know. You and I could ruin one another, but the last few nights, when I thought I’d lost you... If you will be my downfall, then so be it. The question is: are  _ you _ certain?”

A prince, despised by his subjects. A man named Sebastian, offering her his hand. He was one and the same: if she wanted Sebastian LaCroix, she would have to have it all.

She placed her hand in his. “I am with you,” she said simply.

She was not sure what she had expected of him—triumph perhaps—but instead there was merely resignation in his face, as if the inevitable had come to pass, and all that remained was to accept it. He pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Come,” he said. “Come with me, before the dawn breaks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way they say Ming Xiao’s name does bug me a little.


	17. Stealing time

He woke before she did, and spent long minutes studying the planes of her face. He knew the sound of her voice. He knew her scent. He knew the feel of her skin under his lips, his hands, pressed against him. He knew regret for binding her to his fate. 

He slid out of bed, taking care not to rouse her. She had spent the last few days in the sewers—she needed the rest. His bare feet made no sound on the penthouse floor, and he closed the bathroom door with the same exaggerated care before running the shower. After that, he dressed in a fresh shirt and suit: last night’s garments lay strewn across the floor, a breadcrumb trail between the door and the bed. He combed his hair. Settled his expression into the look of a prince. Dispassionate. Impartial. 

When he exited the bathroom, she was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. “Good evening.” He kissed the top of her head, savouring the smell of her hair. 

“Good evening.” She lifted her face to him, and he kissed that too. “I’m starving.” 

“I’ll get you a drink.” His refrigerator was always well stocked, and he poured them both a large glass of his favoured vintage. 

“Thanks. Do you mind if I drink in bed?” She was cocooned in the tangled mass of sheets, still so young that she felt the cold. 

“Be my guest.” He sat on the corner of the bed. 

She hummed her thanks and gulped it down in the manner of a teenager with stolen liquor. He sighed at the sight. She truly had little respect for the provenance and flavour of vitae. “Sorry. I haven’t been able to hunt for a few nights. This is exquisite though.” 

“It’s of French origin,” he offered, as he got up to refill her glass. 

She smiled from behind her curtain of dark hair. “Is that what your palate prefers?” 

“Indeed. Due to the nature of our blood, you may find that your tastes become more...specific, with the passage of time.” 

She pursed her lips in thought, ever the doctor. “Specific? As in I will only want to feed on certain types of blood? AB positive, arterial rather than venous, that sort of thing?” 

“For most, it’s the properties of the mortal that is desirable. I would not waste time worrying about it—you’ll discover your own preferences in time.” 

“I see.” She reached out to straighten his tie. “You look good in blue. You should wear it more. It brings out the colour of your eyes.” She ran her fingers down his front, sending a thrill straight up his spine, then back down to a different region. “Sebastian, that scar on your abdomen—what is it?” 

“Bayonet. A souvenir from Waterloo.” 

She stroked the scar under his shirt as if her touch could heal it, her dark eyes sorrowful. “Oh. Is that what killed—“ she caught herself. “—prepared you for the Embrace?” 

“Not that, but the fever that came after,” he said. “My sire found me on his lands, injured and trying to traverse enemy territory after the rout of the  Grande Armée . He was a Belgian noble. Belgium had been annexed by France during the revolution, and many resented the fact. He thought to amuse himself with me. And when the fever took hold—I suppose he was not yet done with me.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and the tenderness in her voice and her gaze was unbearable, like staring into the heart of the sun. Moving like a marionette, she put her arms around his neck, placed her cheek against his, inched her body closer—crumpling his shirt—until he was locked in her embrace. The Beast in him stirred, fearful of being trapped again, but her hold slackened and he wondered if she sensed his unease. She soothed him with caresses along his cheek, his spine, lulling the Beast back into no more than watchfulness. Had she ever succumbed to frenzy? Unlikely, given his regular delivery of blood packs. How would she have reacted to the sight of him on all fours in a dank stone cells, clawing at the walls and bars until his fingertips were shredded to the bone? 

“Where is your sire now?” Perhaps she was not such a pacifist after all—there was a tranquil fury in her words. 

“I am beyond his reach, and he is beyond mine.” He gave her a thin smile. “It has come full circle—now it is you who are being punished for my sins, as I have been punished for that of my masters.” 

She shrugged. “Being disliked simply because I work for you is just one more reason, when there have been many through my life. My skin is the wrong colour, my eyes are the wrong shape. My accent is strange. My grasp of Chinese dialects is poor. It doesn’t matter.” 

“You must be careful in Chinatown. I know of Ming Xiao. She despises Kindred, and she may hate you all the more for having been...taken from them, in a fashion. Remember what the spy in Santa Monica wanted. We may not be battling in the streets, but trust that she will be watching you, hoping that an opportunity to injure you presents itself.” He could not risk telling her more. “Traditionally, the Kuei-jin have stayed in Asian territory and the Kindred, Europe, and later North America. But recently, they invaded the West Coast - killing off a substantial number of anarchs. They lack the organization of the Camarilla and think nothing of breaking the Masquerade. Though we share similar traits, there is no fraternity between us. We Embrace - they rise from the grave. They know not the pleasure of blood. They are without clan. And oh yes, they believe our kind to be inferior. They are as much of a threat as the wolves.” 

“Wolves?” She must have been a keen student in life. He could see why Beckett had deigned to speak to her. 

“Werewolves. I can still recall a time when cities were surrounded by miles of forests full of the beasts. But progress has taken care of that problem.” 

“I take it that I should give up hiking?” Such a dark expression did not belong on her face, even though the tone of her voice was playful. “The Kuei-Jin, werewolves, us...all apex predators, competing for food and territory. David Attenborough should make a documentary about us.” 

“How droll.” He kissed her answering smile. “Stay within urban limits. Even the strongest Kindred may not survive an encounter with a werewolf.” 

She glanced at the time before she untangled herself from him and rolled out of bed, retracing their progress from the night before and collecting fallen garments. “I don’t suppose you’re in the habit of throwing your clothes all over the floor?” 

“Ah, not as such, no.” He cursed the inevitable march of the clock hands—he was sorely tempted to stay and watch her move around his penthouse, clad only in a borrowed t-shirt and her underwear. “Loathe as I am to leave, I have a meeting. We may not see each other for some time after this. To everyone else, things must appear as they were, lest we give my enemies more reason to hinder your progress.” 

She threw his clothes on a chair and exchanged the borrowed t-shirt for her bra and blouse. With her back to him, he could not see the look on her face. “I understand. And if I come across something important?” 

“Then come to me. And we will steal what time we can.” She did up of the zipper of her skirt, pulling it snug around her hips. Unable to help himself, he slipped a hand under it. She turned to him with a raised eyebrow, but responded to his touch anyway, fingers of one hand sliding into his hair as he leaned into the kiss. “You’re very determined to make me late,” he murmured, absently starting to undo the effort that they had both spent getting dressed with his unoccupied hand. “But my accountant can wait. I pay her well enough for her time.” 


	18. Ghost people

Chinatown by night was not an unfamiliar sight to her. The red lanterns and neon signs lent the streets some colour, and snatches of Mandarin, Cantonese, Vietnamese, Korean and Japanese were audible if she concentrated on making out the different languages. The mouthwatering smell of a hundred dishes that she had loved wafted through the air, a potent reminder of what she had lost. This time, a few months ago, she would have been after a late night ramen fix with Samantha and the others, followed by a dessert of sweet silken tofu in a ginger syrup, or mango and sago in coconut milk.

She was tempted to try eating anyway, even if a previous attempt with noodles had ended with her doubled over the porcelain throne and keenly acquainted with regret. Food had been once been one of her greatest pleasures, and now it was just blood: food and life and sex rolled into one experience, and she wondered if the monotony of it was what made elder vampires so bored that politics was their only entertainment.

The Golden Temple’s pagoda loomed above her in the foggy night. It had always been closed to the public, allegedly for ongoing restorations, but she had hardly expected it to be the headquarters of supernatural beings. The temple gate was emblazoned with a familiar dragon and phoenix design, and when she placed her hand on the phoenix door, it swung open. The traditional wooden threshold was there, but it obviously wasn’t working very well to keep the _gēung sī_ out. Not this one, at any rate. At least becoming a Kindred hadn’t forced her to restrict her locomotion to hopping, or to dress in the Qing Dynasty official outfits that the movies of her childhood had led her to associate with Chinese vampires.

The courtyard inside was deserted, but lights burned in the building immediately opposite the gate. She crossed a small bridge and slid open the paper door. A woman clad in a _cheongsam_ was carefully setting some incense sticks in a brazier. Without turning away from her work, she said, “ _Wǒ de huāyuán lǐ yǒu yīgè xiǎo háizi_.” There is a little child in my garden.

Faye ducked her head, as she would have done to pass before an elder. “ _Nǐ hǎo_.”

Still not looking up, the woman poured some tea into two cups. “ _Huānyíng. Xiǎohái, nǐ jiào shénme míngzì_?” Welcome. Child, what is your name?

“ _Wǒ jiào_ Faye.”

The woman gave her a sharp look, and Faye was startled to see that her eyes were the colour of cheap jade—poorly valued for its pallid hue. She was fashionably pale, as tended to be the case with dead, and she had emphasised that with a thick layer of white powder. Her cheeks and eyelids were rouged in the traditional way that lived on in Chinese opera performances, and her lips had been painted cherry red: a classic Chinese beauty by all measures but her eerie eyes. “ _Nǐ zhēn míng shì shénme_?” What is your true name?

She answered in a quiet voice, “ _Wǒ jiào Fēi Xuě_.” She didn’t give her family name. They both understood those days were past both of them.

The woman’s smile did not reach her eyes. “ _Wǒ jiào Míng Xiǎo._ _Wǒ shì Luòshānjī huárén de dà jìsī. Qǐng hē chá_.” She offered her a teacup with a steady hand, filled to the brim with steaming, fragrant jasmine tea.

She shook her head. “ _Bùyòng._ _Dà jìsī shì shénme_?”

Míng Xiǎo switched to effortless English, that was far more melodic than Faye’s stilted Mandarin. “In English, an approximate translation would be high priestess. Ah, that is right. Your kind drinks solely of mortal blood, correct? No longer may you partake in the simple pleasures of the mortal realm. A shame.”

“You can?” Maybe Kindred did get the short end of the stick.

“Yes. We are similar to you Kindred in fewer ways than you might imagine. There is much that you do not understand about us, although you may come closer than some of your brethren. They cannot even call us by the right name: Kuei-Jin means nothing in any of our languages. _Wǒmen shì guǐ rén_.”

“Ghost people,” she said thoughtfully. That demonstrated a surprising amount of self-awareness. “But not vampires.”

“We are supernatural; that does not mean we are like yourself. We are beings returned through the Second Breath for a purpose.” Míng Xiǎo angled her head and looked down her nose with the same difficulty that the Ventrue primogen had experienced. Being tall had its advantages.

“The second breath?” It sounded like an extremely literal translation.

“The Second Breath - our rebirth into the supernatural form. It is a spiritual awakening, not some lowly blood ritual meant to spread a despicable curse.” Compared to Míng Xiǎo, even Sebastian looked like the very model of humility.

“But we are similar.” They were both dead, for one, which probably counted for more in common than a liking for Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

“We share superficial similarities; _guǐ rén_ feed on essences that can be found in blood, yes... but as we refine our existence, rarely are we lowered to consume the bodily fluids of others.”

So they were _gēung sī_ _,_ just more ‘refined’, which probably meant the same as it did in Kindred society: older, more desiccated and far more removed from humanity. Where were her Qing dynasty robes? Instead, she was wearing a modern _cheongsam_ : modern in that the tailor had seen fit to save on the amount of fabric used by putting Míng Xiǎo’s cleavage on display. “So as a mortal you can choose to become supernatural?”

“No, we do not choose, but events of our lives can awaken dark spiritual energies. We are not born of the whims of another as the Kindred are.”

While she could not argue the latter point, the former hardly sounded appealing. “So why are some chosen to become supernatural?”

“The reasons are as numerous as the _guǐ rén_ themselves. Each is reborn with a purpose that they must find. Once their path is evident, they must seek to fulfill it, even if it takes eternity.”

“It sounds as much as a curse as the Embrace of Caine.” At least she didn’t have to spend eternity in pursuit of a single objective. Theoretically, the option of spending the years visiting museums and galleries across the world after hours for some private perusal was available to her.

“On the contrary, it is another chance for us to find our place in the universe, a chance for transcendence. We are not damned, not burdened with an ancient guilt, as in the legend of your biblical progenitor.”

Why did ghost stories never mention that the dead possessed egos the size of continents? It was fortunate that she was adept at ignoring insults. “Speaking of legends, have you heard of the Ankaran Sarcophagus?”

“Of course. The entire city is alight with news of its arrival and speculation about one of your ancient vampire grandfathers, and his evil apocalyptic plot.” Míng Xiǎo’s turn of phrase was curiously similar to Sebastian’s.

“I take it you don’t believe in that?”

“We do not share your history, nor do we share in your false prophecies.”

She could not help raising an eyebrow. People who made categorical statements in the absence of solid evidence in either direction never failed to annoy her. “False prophecies?”

“It all serves to distract the Kindred. Such a distasteful existence you live, skulking in the shadows, fighting for scraps and fearing the return of your fictitious fathers, completely oblivious to your true purpose.”

She wondered what exactly Míng Xiǎo thought the true purpose of a Kindred were, but an educated guess would be that she looked on them as inferior _guǐ rén_ , destined for subjugation and slaughter. “Do you know the true history of Kindred?”

“No, I do not. But with my help, you might find the path you were meant for. Instead, you stumble through the afterlife, a meaty remnant still clinging to the mortal rib.” Categorical indeed.

Her path was to look for a sarcophagus, which made her a veritable undead Indiana Jones. “Do you know where the sarcophagus is?”

“We seek it, of course. I have two of my best agents looking. It could be a powerful bargaining tool.” Any honesty on Ming Xiao’s part was simply due to perceiving her being less than an insect on a threat scale.

“Who are these agents?” Running into them could be an indication that she was on the right track.

“Let me just say that I do not encourage you to seek the Ankaran Sarcophagus.” Míng Xiǎo’s ability to sound condescending in two languages was truly impressive.

It seemed like an opportune time to change the subject. “Tell me about how the _guǐ rén_ interact with humans.”

Míng Xiǎo gave her a pitying look, like a teacher who was dealing with a particularly dull student. “I expected even a foreign born child of our people to know this. In our homeland, man and supernatural live in uneasy harmony. Our mortals see spirituality in all things, and our existence is taken for granted. An open secret is the easiest to keep.”

“You do not hide your nature?” She certainly had never heard of a high priestess in Chinatown before the last few minutes, much less one who was an undead snob.

“We do, in fact. Our purpose is to seek transcendence. Interfering in mortals' lives, or their interference in our unlives, detracts from this pursuit.”

“But you said you’re a high priestess to the Chinese people of Los Angeles—did you not mean the humans as well?”

“My purpose touches many lives; such is my path.”

She could not bite back her retort. “Perhaps ‘many lives serve your purpose’ is a better way to put it.”

“We do not claim majesty over mortals as Kindred do: Whether as bestial lords or shadowy puppetmasters, you all delight in your superiority over naturally weaker creatures.” Again with tarring everyone with the same brush. To listen to her talk, one would think that every Kindred was a Vlad Tepes or a member of the one percent.

“Weaker creatures?” She recalled Sebastian’s comments about napalm and nuclear weapons.

Míng Xiǎo did not appear concerned by any of those things. “I mean it in the most practical sense. Does the parent show the child contempt by protecting it? To help those weaker than oneself is a tenet of my order.” Admirable if through, although her sort of help probably involved crushing with an iron fist.

Nevertheless, as much as it galled her, Míng Xiǎo was not entirely wrong. Trying to stop people from making bad decisions had been a large part of her job. “I agree with your comment about guiding those who need it.”

“Indeed. I am familiar with clan Ventrue and similarities do exist. We understand human and supernatural society more keenly than most. The mortals of our domain are blessedly humble, simple and content to avoid supernatural attention, which is more than can be said for Western stock.”

How did Míng Xiǎo know about clan Ventrue? Know thine enemy? She would not have described herself as blessedly humble and simple, although she would have liked to avoid the supernatural attention, but it was far too late for that. No doubt her difference would be ascribed to the disgusting influence of Western mortals and Kindred. “Humans are not so dissimilar to one another. As for what we now are—“

“Were we not all human at one point? Is it not obvious, Kindred, that mortality is not the end? Is it then not unreasonable to think that further existences lie beyond? That we are all simply transforming? This is what we seek. Or at least as best as I can explain it to you.”

If she had anything to do with it, her next form would have rainbows, because she still possessed the sense of humour and aesthetics of a preschool child. “I’m looking for a missing Nosferatu agent.”

“So. The great Nosferatu have lost an agent, have they? It was not by my hand, if that's what they think.” A likely story.

“Do you have any idea where he could be?”

“I don't know where he is. Perhaps you should speak with Wong Ho about this.” Leaders of any stripe, mortal or supernatural, loved delegating.

“Who is Wong Ho?”

“Wong Ho owns the Red Dragon restaurant. He is a prominent businessman, who has garnered much respect among his people. If something is amiss in Chinatown, he may know how to help you. I grant you permission to operate in the Kuei-jin domain... for now. May you find your path, Kindred.”

With nothing further to say, she bowed a little and left, feeling Míng Xiǎo’s eyes on her back. Sebastian and her mysterious email pen pal were right. She would have to be careful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is a linguistic mess and I'm sorry. My Mandarin is *really* bad, please feel free to correct me, if you can interpret my garbled pinyin. The choice to write in pinyin was deliberate.  
> gēung sī (Cantonese)= jiāngshī (Mandarin). There's some fun watching to be had in the movies of my childhood (example trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_flyhBBR9sE)  
> cheongsam (Cantonese) =qipao (Mandarin). Note the lack of gratuituous boob windows here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheongsam  
> Faye's birth name is 飞雪 (pronounced Fēi Xuě, and translates to Flying Snow), and yes, I stole her name from Maggie Cheung's character in Zhang Yimou's film Hero, because I wanted something that was hopefully both poetic and was easily anglicised.  
> I hope you enjoyed my Chinatown pain!


	19. The past

It had been a long night. Los Angeles moved a little further from the sun with each revolution of the earth on its axis at this time of the year, but it was time to go home. The gangsters would mourn the death of Johnny and swear vengeance on a ghost. Mr Zhao would have to find his own way out of LA without running afoul of the Tong again, and Kiki Wong was none the worse for wear from her kidnapping, which had neither taught her humility nor given her any insight into her own mortality. 

Faye couldn’t remember being that young and foolish. Someone else would probably charged headlong into the Fu Syndicate, on account of being a big bad vampire and all that entailed. She, on the other hand, thought that it could wait until tomorrow. It was obviously a trap and there had to be better ways to spring it.

She couldn’t help pausing as she passed the ramen shop. Memories were malleable, unreliable. Already the memory of the mouth feel of noodles was fading. The voices of her parents, her friends. One day, if she survived long enough, this ramen shop would close its doors forever. Old buildings would be knocked down, streetscapes would transform, everyone she had known in life would die, and then there would be nothing to tie her to humanity but memories bled of colour and life. At best, she would end up Beckett, viewing humans through the lens of a scholar. At worst, she would lose herself, and everything she held dear.

It was that very moment that Samantha stepped through the door of the ramen shop. Their eyes met, then she turned and hurried away.

Samantha was not so easily put off, and she jogged after her. “Excuse me. Excuse me! Oh my gosh, is that you? Everyone was worried sick about you! When you didn’t show up and didn’t call and nobody knew anything about what happened to you—we thought you were dead! Are you okay? You know what, never mind, we have to help you.”

She forced herself to lie. “Who are you?” she asked, a bewildered stranger.

“It's me, Samantha! Don't you... did you suffer amnesia, is that it? A head injury? Let me make a call. We-we'll get everybody together, we can talk - maybe you'll remember something. The important thing is that they know you're alive.”

Heat pricked her eyelids. She knew what she had to do. Using the blood, she pushed at Samantha’s memory, bending the truth into a new shape. “You never saw me, Samantha. I’m dead. This is how you will remember me.”

The joy in her face curled in on itself like a dying flower. “I’m sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake. That person I mistook you for, I just remember that she...she died.” Tears welled in Samantha’s eyes.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Excuse me.” She took one last look at Samantha, recalling the sound of her laughter, then she walked away, and it turned into a march, a jog, a run, a sprint away from the life she had before, messy and joyful and sad and painful and all of it lost, washed away like words written in the sand by a child shading her eyes from the sun glittering on the sea, not understanding that one day she would not have even that.

She was alone. Her flight had carried her into a dark alley between warehouses that smelled of fish and rotting vegetables. She was alone in death, but it wasn’t the oblivion that she had imagined. Instead, it was the promise of an eternity, severed from everyone she had loved, a guillotine blade amputating any connection she had to humanity.

“It’s love that will keep me human,” she whispered to the grimy bricks. Giving voice to the lie didn’t help. She, of all people, should know that saying and believing something didn’t grant it truth. She was a monster. How many people had she killed in the massage parlour? Five? Ten? And the women in there—she couldn’t help them. The dead resignation in their eyes needed years of help from the living, not the sort of salvation that a dead monster could bring. Maybe they had been trafficked, perhaps held captive by money or drugs or force, but the only freedom that she could give them was the liberty that she was too cowardly to seek for herself.

Not yet. First, she had to make them forget her. Spare them a lifetime of the grief of not knowing. And Sebastian...she could not do that to him. She’d seen too many people mourning someone who had been gone for years, doomed to always blame themselves for not preventing it.

She sent Mitnick an email.  _Please call me. I need a favour._ Sure enough, her phone rang when she got out of the cab half an hour later, no caller ID listed but a familiar nasal voice greeted her. She looked up and down the street before cupping her hand over her mouth and speaking. “Hey. Can you do a bit of research about the Fu Syndicate? Email me with what you find. And there was a bit of a disturbance at the Lotus Blossom in Chinatown. I think that the regular powers that be would appreciate a heads up, by a roundabout way, of course. Thanks. Chat soon.”

*

It was his habit to reserve paperwork for the few hours before dawn, but when Chunk rang to announce to that Faye was asking to see him, the decision was a simple one. The prospect of seeing her was considerably more enticing, as unwise as it was. Someone was bound to notice. Chunk might make some offhand comment about how often she was there, or the Nosferatu would see her coming and going, now that they were back on the streets. On the night of Grout’s demise, he would have worn her scent of fire and war on his skin as he stood before the primogen, fool that he was. Which one of them would be the first to use her against him? Strauss? Gary? Joyce? Wellesley? Bach? The Anarchs? The Camarilla elders? The Kuei-Jin?

He had to win, or he would guarantee her destruction.

The elevator dinged, and the Pavlovian flutter in his chest was just one more sign of his foolish weakness. “Leave me,” he said to the sheriff. “See that I am not disturbed.” Premeditated bad decisions, one after another where she was concerned. As the door opened, he went to her, matching her step for step, meeting her in the middle of his empty office and snatching her into his arms. She smelled of gunpowder and blood, once again on the front lines of his war. “Are you hurt?” he murmured into her hair.

“No.” Her voice had been bled of life and colour.

“Have you found the location of the sarcophagus?”

“No.”

He pulled away, just enough to study her face. No humour, no explanation. Just monosyllabic answers. “Is something wrong?”

She exhaled slowly. “We’re all monsters, aren’t we? Jack was right about that much. Damned, every last one of us.”

He could guess at her distress now. She was an effective weapon, if a reluctant one. “If you killed in my service, the blame lies with me.”

“That reductionist view presumes that I have no agency of my own.” Something flared in her dark eyes, and he much preferred that spark of anger to the blankness that had preceded it. “I could have refused to do so.”

The illusion of free will was a powerful one. Her naïveté was touching. How long could he shield her from the elders? “Then I am grateful for all that you do for me.” He pressed his forehead to hers, meeting her gaze with equal intensity. Kindred and mortal alike would do anything, if given the right reasons. Pull the right strings and anyone was a puppet that would dance to his tune. She was silent for several minutes, her muscles tensed like a tiger coiled to pounce. He was conscious of their time trickling away, and when he felt like she had ruminated for a sufficient period, he prompted her gently. “What happened tonight?”

“I met with Míng Xiǎo. Saved an ungrateful brat from some triad members, saved a former triad member from more of his former compatriots, and upheld the Masquerade. There is a man, who called himself the Mandarin.” She made a small, disparaging sound. “He knows too much about us. He was monitoring my heat signature, and when his flunky shot me, he knew what the outcome would be.”

“You were shot? Where?” His voice betrayed him. “You said you weren’t hurt.”

“The wound has healed. That man said he has the Nosferatu agent. Asked me to come and get him. It’ll be a trap, of course.” She sounded so matter-of-fact.

A mortal who dared to threaten her? A fool who would not see the next sunrise. “You were right to come to me. The sheriff will go with you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She traced circles over his atrophied heart. “He’s expecting me. Any company might make him just kill the Nosferatu agent and go to ground.”

He stroked her face with his dead, grey hand, so different to her luminous gold skin, undimmed by the Embrace. “I almost pity those who underestimate your power. Go prepared, and be careful. Mercurio knows that you need only ask, and he must provide. Don’t worry about expense. Let me do at least that much for you.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was all too short-lived, grief passing over her features like storm clouds blotting out the sun. “And I...saw an old friend.”

“I trust you upheld the Masquerade?” It was an unwelcome reminder that his fledgling had a wholly separate life before her nights with him, and that she presumably had lovers in those days. Whoever this ‘old friend’ had been to her was of no consequence, as long as she was clear that those days were in the past.

“I told her that I was dead, and made her forget that she had ever seen me.” He understood that of everything that she had suffered thus far, this had cut the deepest.

He held her through it, murmuring in both English and French, as if she was a babe that needed soothing. “ _ Chut ,  mon chou _ . You are young still. This will pass.  _Ne pleure pas_ . You did the right thing, my sweet Faye.”

Her laughter was brittle. “That’s not even my real name. It was anglicised in school. Míng Xiǎo guessed as much.”

“I will call you whatever you wish. As the saying goes, a rose by any other name, hmm?” He knew her birth name, of course. The Nosferatu had not missed any of her documents.

“Names have power because of the people who called you by those names.” She ran a thumb over his knuckles. “Were you born Sebastian LaCroix?”

“Sébastien Delacroix,” he said in a quiet voice, uncertain as to how she had drawn the truth out of him. “Close enough. I have worn variations of that name through the centuries—rather unimaginative, I know. I was known as Sebastian Cross during my years in Britain.”

“Do you miss being called Sébastien?”

“If there’s one thing that I’ve learned—one single lesson that I can impart, it is that you must let go of the past.” He said it as if it was a mere trifle for someone whose past remained in the present.

“You’re right. That girl is dead. She is lost to everyone who knew her by that name.”

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. There was only one comfort he could offer. A semblance of life, recreated with his mouth and hands and body, the greatest gift that he had offered anyone in two centuries—a poor offering in return for the fire that she had kindled within him. He gave her himself, the fool who wished to be a prince, the prince who wished to be a lover, the lover who knew himself to be a fool. He gave her everything that he was, for he knew that he would destroy everything about her that was good, and that she would never even feel his hand upon the strings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Google translate French:  
> Chut, mon chou= Hush, my cabbage. Which the internet tells me is a term of endearment.   
> Ne pleure pas = do not cry.


	20. Beware the black queen

Sebastian would have to wait tonight—he was safe in his tower. The Red Dragon was both tacky and favoured by the supernatural; the former because that was what the clientele expected, the latter because Mr Wong paid his staff well enough to open late every night. He seemed to be quite the night owl himself, although she had deduced that he was still mortal, on account of how inconvenient it was to simulate the sound of a heartbeat. The businessman was packing his laptop into his briefcase, the hour late for even a workaholic like him.

“Mr Wong,” she said in deferential tones, a leftover from her childhood conditioning. She had addressed Sebastian in the same voice before they were on a first-name basis.

“Please, call me uncle. We are family now, after what you have done for my daughter and I. Have you eaten?”

How long had it been since someone had greeted her that way? She had eaten a security guard or three. He didn’t need to know the details. “Yes, uncle. Thank you. We need to talk.”

He set down his briefcase. “You sound worried.”

“I found out who was bankrolling the Tong.”

Mr Wong was soft-spoken to a fault, even when discussing the people who had kidnapped his daughter. “Really? Who was he?”

She needed his trust, if she was going to save his life. “The silver-haired man that you have seen leaving the temple. He was running some sort of secret science lab...conducting experiments.”

“Experiments? What kind of experiments?”

“The kind that doesn’t require a consent form.” There was a certain shared understanding that this was not a barrier for some of the people who kept a grip on power like they were crushing a bird with their bare hands.

“I see. Where is he now?”

Gary was right about knowledge having a price. She had left a trail of bodies in Chinatown, but it was foolish to speak too openly of some things. “He’ll be waiting for offerings at _Ching Ming_ festival. And I have proof that he was working with Míng Xiǎo.”

It went down about as well as she had expected. “What? How can that be? Míng Xiǎo would never involve herself with something like this. I don’t believe you.”

She didn’t want to push at his mind if she could avoid it, but she concentrated on the aura that she projected. Warm. Caring. Honest. Her limited Cantonese was deployed to that end. “ _Seun ngóh_ , uncle. You were next on their list.”  _Trust me._

It was enough to move him from absolute certainty to wavering indecision. “Hmm. I consider you family and I trust your counsel. Perhaps I will think on this matter for a little while. Maybe I will speak with Míng Xiǎo about it.”

“Please believe me.” She could count herself among those for who regarded free will as optional, but she was doing it for the right reason. “ _m̀h hóu tùhng kéuih góng_. Get out of town now.”  _Don’t speak to her._

He sagged into his chair. “I...believe you.  _Néih gau líuh ngóh néuih yìh_.”  _You saved my daughter._ Despite the manipulation, his gaze was penetrating. “Some of the people here in Chinatown remember a girl that used to visit Chinatown quite regularly, and she looked very much like you. She stopped coming a few months ago.”

She let the questioning silence fill the room, until it accumulated sufficient pressure to cave Mr Wong. He sighed and stood again. “I do not think that girl would have been able to save my daughter. Perhaps I will close the restaurant, get Kiki and go away for a while. Thank you, my friend. I owe you yet another debt of gratitude. May the gods be with you, whatever path you decide to take.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “ _Síu sām_ _._ ”  _Be careful_. Once upon a time, she had believed that there were no gods or demons, only humans. Now, she knew that the demons were real, but it was wishful thinking that something benevolent was protecting humanity from their secretive nocturnal predators. Instead, all they had was Sebastian and the others like him, a pyramid scheme of predators enforcing old laws in a modern world, trying to stay hidden in a world that was growing ever more connected. Perhaps it was just a matter of time until Sebastian’s fears were realised and humans did what they did best, and drove the Kindred to extinction. Of course, humans might eradicate themselves by accident first, despite the best efforts of the vampires with a pointed interest in ongoing human survival, desperately utilising their influence from the shadows to stop the humans from destroying themselves.

She turned to look at Chinatown for the last time, the red lanterns swinging in a gentle breeze. She could not return—Míng Xiǎo would see to that. This time, it was gangsters, a wereshark and a self-proclaimed scientist too terrified to fail. Next time, it would be the full might of the ghost people, and it would be open war. A capacity for destruction was not exclusive to mortals. Some things never changed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ching Ming festival (Qīngmíng in Mandarin) is the traditional day of paying respect to the dead. Wiki this way: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qingming_Festival


	21. La paix de LaCroix

“Glad you’re finally here, missy. Mr LaCroix’s been expecting you tonight, and he’s, uh, in one of his moods again. Kept ringin’ me up to see if you were here yet. You two sure have been working late an awful lot. Me, I just make sure no one bothers you during your meetings. Officer Chunk is on the job, don’t you worry your pretty head, missy.”

She gave him a weak smile in response. If he decided to be chatty the next time the primogen came by, LaCroix would probably arrange an unfortunate end. Making eye contact, she said, “Chunk. You haven’t seen me in the last month.”

Chunk’s mind had the consistency of a jam doughnut. “Long time no see, missy. You been doin’ well? You here to see Mr LaCroix? I’d best check if he wants to see you.” The sharp ‘yes’ that shot out of the phone receiver would have carried to her ears even without vampiric senses. “Head on up, missy. He’s, uh, in one of his moods. Good luck up there.”

Poor Chunk. An earful was still better than one of LaCroix’s ‘permanent solutions’. The sheriff was holding open the door to Sebastian’s office, and he closed it behind her when she entered. These nights, she was guaranteed an exclusive audience with the prince.

“You’re back.” Pale blue eyes swept over her, and Sebastian sniffed the air like a wolf tracking a scent. “Fire? Are you hurt?” He turned over her arms. “And the sarcophagus? Do you know where it is?”

“I’m fine. The Giovanni have it.”

His face twisted into a snarl. “The Giovanni? I shouldn’t be surprised. They think it’s yet another ancient from which they can siphon power.”

“It seems they’re having a reunion in three nights. I think I will attend.”

“Three nights?” Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose, looking weary. “Well, if they’ve had the coffin all this time, three more nights is unlikely to see them opening it.”

“I’m told to expect incest, organised crime, death cults...and spaghetti.” An unusual combination. “Do you have any other insight to offer?”

He raised an eyebrow, a familiar, silent arch comment. “I presume that was Gary’s summary of the Giovanni? It’s not inaccurate. I’ve mentioned them to you before. If they have acquired the sarcophagus, they have violated a pact between the Camarilla and their clan elders. Find it, and bring it here. If they stand in your way, they will answer to me. The rest of their clan will not come to the aid of a few renegades unwise enough to get caught in the act, and I have destroyed people for lesser sins.”

She did not trust herself to answer. What had he done to manoeuvre his way to being prince in a few short centuries? He noticed her unease, but mistook it entirely. “I will have agents waiting to assist you with the sarcophagus—I don’t expect you to move the furniture.” He encircled her wrist with his fingers, then pressed a kiss to where her pulse used to beat. “Infiltrating the Giovanni will be the greater challenge. I’m acquainted with the patriarch of the city: Bruno Giovanni. He is quite a garden variety Giovanni, enamoured with money and anything with the slightest whiff of occult power.”

“Any advice?” She made a mental note to find out what Bruno Giovanni looked like. A clan patriarch might be aware of the newest fledgling in town rocking the boat, although if her luck held out, he would not be aware of the prince’s interest in her.

“Avoid Bruno Giovanni. Don’t openly antagonise them unless you have an inclination towards starting gunfights and gang wars. Your safety is paramount. I’ll arrange for backup, lest you run into trouble.” He smoothed the collar of her new bespoke wool jacket. “You will need a formal evening dress, of course. I trust that my tailor has already seen to that?”

“Yes, but I need somewhere to conceal weapons. A handgun will fit into a purse, but I will need something more lethal if I come across any supernatural foes.”

The lines around his mouth deepened before he responded. “I see. If you have not already mentioned it to him, we should organise an appointment as soon as possible. It will have to be first thing tomorrow evening.” He brushed a thumb over her mouth. “There is an expected level of cosmetics and hair styling for such an event.” He was considerate of her feelings, and left the question implicit.

She would hardly deny that her skills in preening were limited to the application of lipstick. “I would appreciate assistance in that regard as well.”

“Consider it done.” Sebastian was already drawing close, pulling her hair loose from its tie, the look on his face always hungry, always wanting. He desired more. More power. More of her. More of the world. She explored the stories hidden under the suit with her curious fingers, each scar a wound that he had survived, each rib a hungry day, each muscle trained to give him the strength to kill. He had been born in war, and she wondered if he had ever known peace during his restless wandering between continents, or whether he had simply been drafted into from one conflict into another, only this time it was a war that spanned millennia.

“Is it worth it?” She asked as he licked and sucked at her neck, hooking his hand under one of her knees.

“What?” His eyes were fever-bright with desire.

“War. Then, now, in the future...”

His fingers dug into the soft flesh behind her knee and neck, his body taut against hers. “Only to protect what’s mine.” His voice was low, dangerous. “I’ve lost the taste for fighting the wars of others. With you by my side, even the Camarilla will—“ he cut himself off, a furrow appearing between his fair brows before he arranged his features into placid neutrality, placing his hands on either side of her face. “I want peace in LA. All I have done is in pursuit of this single goal.”

“Pax Sebastian? Pax LaCroix?” she teased.

“ _La paix de LaCroix_ .” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “It has a certain ring to it.”

“And where do the Anarchs and Kuei-Jin fit into  _la paix de LaCroix_ ?”

Sebastian took his hands off her and straightened his tie, an unconscious move that was virtually a reflex. His gaze drifted somewhere over her left shoulder. “When the Anarchs see the futility of struggling against the laws that have kept us safe for centuries, then they will be welcomed back into the fold. Any exclusion from Kindred society is a matter of their perception; as long as they abide by the rules, I have no quarrel with them. The Kuei-Jin are—“ his throat worked as he swallowed. “If recent history is of any value as a guide, it will be a bloody affair to attempt to dislodge them from LA.”

“The Nosferatu agent was kidnapped at Míng Xiǎo’s command. They tried to use me as a test subject too, in search of Kindred vulnerabilities.”

The reply was terse. “Explain.”

“Carbon monoxide. Ultraviolet radiation—as it turns out, we are not photosensitive per se. Lasers. Blades. Crosses. Bullets. Electricity. Fire.” She rattled off the list until the last item, the taste of smoke and ash forcing her to choke the word out. There was a reason that people imagined hell was aflame, and maybe vampiric pyrophobia existed for more than the obvious reason. “Unfortunately for them, the windows were bulletproof but their fuel tank placement would have violated occupational health and safety regulations.”

Sebastian looked unamused, a regular regulatory joke beyond comprehension for a being who was both ancient in human terms and a young upstart vampire. “I fail to see the humour in someone trying to measure how flammable you are.” He ran his thumbs over the backs of her forearms. “I trust that the people involved will not have the chance to make the same mistakes again?”

“No. But I found this in the most secure room in the building.” She passed him the photographs of the emails on her mobile phone.

Sebastian was a fast reader; she expected no less. “I see. Ming Xiao is not to be underestimated. I presume that you ensured that the results of these experiments were dealt with in a suitable fashion?”

“Of course. I don’t know what information has already been passed along, but any local data was deleted.” And then crushed under Barabus’ furious fists, just to be certain.

“You did well,” he said, but he was already as distant as the night sky. He stalked over to the windows, his face as impassive and inscrutable as the statues of forgotten generals in city parks, and she wondered if he saw battle lines in the sharp rectangles of city blocks, or threading over roofs and through alleys. It was going to be yet another us against them, an elimination of offensive differences of opinion or origin or clothing or accent or language or habit.

She reached across the chasm. “Sebastian?”

“Hmm?” It took a moment for his eyes to focus on her, then he lifted her knuckles to his lips. “You should go. There are many matters that demand my attention.”

“Are you all right?”

His fingers tightened around hers. “I appreciate your concern,” he said. “If I seem distracted, it is on your account. I am rather...invested in your safety. There are arrangements I must make for your rendezvous with the Giovanni.” He kissed her forehead, then her mouth, his tongue parting her lips before he pulled away with a sharp exhalation. “I will see you after that.  _ Bon courage ,  mon coeur _ .”

“Care to translate that for me?”

He smiled for the first time that night. “Some other evening, when my attention can be wholly yours. Now go, before I do something foolish.”

“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,” she quoted. She didn’t look back until she was at the door, stealing one last glance at him. He had not moved a step, his back ramrod straight like a toy soldier, and he never blinked until she was gone. 


	22. Alone

Was it possible to remove the stain of zombie brain from silk? This gown was a damned nuisance. No amount of hitching up her skirts was going to remove the encumbrance, unlesss she really removed said encumbrance and left the lower half of her body free to enjoy the dank air of the crypt. It was not an enticing option.

The door swung open to reveal a large tiered chamber yawning below. Her mouth moved in an unvoiced expletive, provoked by the lack of cover, then she put away her trusty Brokk. She unhitched Jaegerspas from the jury-rigged holster under her leg—the one good thing about this gown was that the full skirt had concealed the shotgun well enough for her to pass it off as a knee brace for an ACL injury. She loaded the Jaegerspas as quietly as possible, keeping her ears pricked for trouble. The feeling of someone dancing on her grave was all too familiar by now. That done, she tried to knot her skirts to keep them out of the way, feeling a twinge of guilt at how rough she was with the tulle. It was hard to be stealthy when wearing red—literally the colour of alarm—and draped in rustling layers of silk, but she tried anyway. Failure did not come as a surprise.

“ _Ānjìng! Yǒurén láile_ .” Shut up! Someone is coming.

The two men who bounded up could have acted in  _wǔxiá_ films without the wirework and post-production special effects, especially with their Qing dynasty Manchurian queues. They circled her warily, keeping her flanked. It was obvious they were brothers, if not twins, although one wielded a sword and the other sported claws.

“ _ Zhè shì tā _ ,” sword brother said with quiet conviction. This is she.

Claw brother continued without pause, as if their brains were operated by the same ticker tape. “ _Míng Xiǎo gàosù wǒmen nǐ yīdìng huì lái_ .” Ming Xiao told us you would surely come.

Next brother. “ _ Dànshì nǐ zài zhèlǐ wéifǎnle wǒmen lǐngdǎo rén zhī jiān de xiéyì _ .”

She was struggling to follow their Mandarin. “My being here does what?”

“Your presence here violates the agreement between our leaders.” Dark eyes glittered, in recognition of the alien. “Leave now, or face the consequences.”

Her own ticker tape made the connection. Míng Xiǎo’s two best agents. She played the diplomat. Two versus one could get ugly. “Let’s discuss this problem, whatever it may be.”

“There is an alliance between your leader, LaCroix, and mistress Míng Xiǎo! You violate the agreement! If you do not leave, we are not responsible for your death!”

“That can’t be possible.” Her instincts were screaming at her, dead body trying to preserve itself in some perversion of a survival instinct.

“We'll give you one more chance to leave this place and keep your life. You will go?”

“No.” She shot the closest brother as his arm came up, then took a running jump to the next level without waiting to see its effect. She was thinking of diamond before she hit the ground and a firebomb ricocheted off the wall next to her. Diamond, beauty produced by millennia of intense compression. Diamond, impervious to inconsequential forces like fire and steel blades and claws. Her next shot only clipped the pursuing brother, but enough so that his claws only grazed her arm lightly, not even drawing blood.

It took several magazines before the last brother was thrown backwards by the shotgun blast to the gut and didn’t rise. She made sure anyway, with an extra blast each to the head and neck of both brothers.

It was over. She hoped it was. The laser focus of the Beast in her was fading, and she was left trembling, a stranger in her own body, a doll with a painted face and a shotgun in her hands. Fumbling with her phone, she called the number that Sebastian had texted her earlier. “Hello?”

A familiar, rough voice answered. “Hey, hero. Thought I’d return the favour.”

“Barabus?”

“Yeah. Heard that the prince wanted someone to back you up on your little excursion. Figured I would volunteer, and his royal highness figured a sewer rat who owed you one was a better choice than any of his precious court. More expendable, eh?” His laughter was that of an old smoker. “So, what can I do to help you?”

“I have a big heavy box to move. I’m in the crypt below the mansion. There were two others here, who must have taken a different way in. If we can get it out without kicking the ant nest, I’d prefer it.”

“I saw some of our old friends from the other end of town sneaking in earlier. Sit tight, hero. I’ll see you soon.”

There was nothing to do but wait, alone with her thoughts and the reminder of her sins. The only colour that mattered in this dark world was red blood, hot and pumping through the arteries of the mortals upstairs, all blissfully ignorant of the nature of the favour that they sought from Uncle Bruno. Blood, spattered across the floor of the crypt. Blood, sluicing down her tongue and throat, hot blood from someone’s jugular, cold blood straight from the fridge, and there was no question as to what she preferred. She had never drained anyone dry, but that specific fact seemed meaningless given the two corpses that were keeping her company. She turned her face away, a coward’s escape.

So much death for one sarcophagus. A city alight with dread—words from the lips of her lover and those of his professed enemy.

_There is an alliance between your leader, LaCroix, and mistress Míng Xiǎo!_ Two brothers together in death, who had been bound by the honour of warriors. She knew in her bones that they had given her their truth.

No.  _No_ . It could not be. He had not known about the agent in Santa Monica, of that she was certain. Sebastian—still LaCroix then, still just the prince, a handsome stranger in a tuxedo in that dingy apartment, the aquarium key card held up between two fingers. His eyes had swept down the length of her body just once, but instead of some cutting comment about greeting him attired in a towel, he had kept his gaze on her face, an unexpected gesture of respect from a man that had seemed inclined to order her beheading when they first met. Then he had stepped close, brushing the hair back from her neck and running a cool thumb along her skin, and it had been all at once too much like the muddled memory of Rhineheart doing the exact same thing.

If Rhineheart had not met his final death, would he have—

Would she have been forced into—

If Mr German Car had been so affected by her, a vampire barely days old, what would someone of Sebastian’s age—

Even VV, Isaac Abrams, Bishop Vick, Jezebel had been compelling, magnetic, so difficult to separate the words from the—

And if something ancient slept within the sarcophagus—

She did not let herself finish those terrible thoughts. There was no sense speculating in the absence of solid evidence. 

The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, part of her whispered.

There was nothing to do but wait. Alone in her mind, and that was the least terrifying thing that she could imagine. 


	23. Should a pawn trust in the king?

It had been a restless half hour since he had received the text message that she was on her way back. The sheriff was waiting below to lead them through the service entrance, and when the much anticipated ding of the elevator finally sounded, LaCroix was glad for a signal to the end of the conversation with Beckett. To the prince’s displeasure, the Gangrel had invited himself to examine the sarcophagus, arriving in the tower minutes after Faye’s text message, yet another unwelcome reminder that too many eyes and ears were watching her movements. Even the scholar must have been privy to some of the rumours circulating about her given his curiosity about her encounter with Bach.

The sheriff entered, carrying one end of the sarcophagus, the other held up by two junior Ventrue. LaCroix darted forward for a closer look. So much fuss over such an old thing, the edges of its carvings worn smooth by the passage of centuries. Someone—presumably the Giovanni—had cleaned off the bloody handprints that Faye had photographed on the Dane. There was no sense of impending doom or foreboding auras to it. Just...potential. The same thrill that he felt every time he looked into Faye’s eyes.

The sight of her was almost enough to make him forget the sarcophagus, even if just for the space of a stunned breath. Her dark eyes accentuated by sharp lines, and that full mouth rouged the same wine-red as her gown, which flared out from her slim waist into a full skirt. Her graceful neck was hidden under a a traditional Chinese collar, and this somehow inflamed him all the more. He greeted her with triumph. “My wunderkind returns! In my entire court, I knew there was only one who could have succeeded in this task. Finally, the Ankaran sarcophagus is ours! Come. I've granted Beckett's request to study and document all the markings on the sarcophagus. You've met Beckett, haven't you? Let's go take a look inside, and see what the commotion around the city has really been all about.”

Her greeting was cool, perhaps to maintain their own little masquerade in front of Beckett. “I need to talk to you first. It’s important.”

He had not waited this long to be put off. “What could be more important than the sarcophagus?”

An odd look flitted across her face before she said in a quiet but insistent voice. “We should speak alone.” When LaCroix made no move to go, she cast a glance at Beckett, who was tut-tutting as he peered at the sarcophagus. “We need to talk about the Kuei-Jin.”

He had indulged her enough. “And we will do so, after we open it.” He went to join Beckett by the sarcophagus, pretending not to hear her sardonic mutter, “The suspense is killing me”. Addressing the historian, he said, “What have you assessed so far?”

Beckett pushed his spectacles up his nose, animal eyes glinting with his usual smug amusement. “Unfortunately for the heralds of doom, it appears we won't be opening Pandora's Box. The markings, as far as I can tell, are of Assyrian origin. An extraordinary piece, but nothing earth-shattering.”

“I see. Then there's no reason why we shouldn't open it.” He undid the button of his suit jacket, set his hands against one edge of the lid and pushed. Beckett’s lip remained curled in its perpetual smirk and Faye’s eyebrows crept up an infinitesimal distance, a small sign of a vast disdain. LaCroix concentrated, letting the power of the blood coil through his muscles, then pushed again to no effect. He was making a fool of himself in front of his lover and an impudent elder. “Won’t budge. Beckett, do you see any mechanism for the lid?”

Beckett’s reply was laced with his usual sarcasm. “I haven't as of yet had a chance to pore over it with my fine tooth comb. I think I have one in my bag.” The scholar thought he was untouchable, and he was right. It took a significant amount of effort for LaCroix to keep the snarl off his face.

“Why won't it—“ he grunted as he levered all the force he could muster against the slab, which did not shift in the slightest. “—why won't it open, Beckett?” He turned his furious gaze on Faye, who was watching with a faint frown. “And you, I thought you said it looked as if it had been opened on the Dane... I want it open! You! You and Beckett figure out a way to open it. I need to know what's inside. I have other matters to attend to. Come get me when a solution has been found.”

He was distantly aware of Faye and Beckett engaged in muted conversation as he scrolled through stock market reports on his laptop, still too agitated to comprehend any of the figures before his eyes. Perhaps keeping the sarcophagus in his office was unwise, but there was nowhere safer than before his eyes and that of the sheriff. A soft step and a rustle announced her presenting herself, but he kept his eyes fixed on the screen.

“Mr LaCroix?” she said with stilted formality. “May I speak to you in private?”

His ego still smarting, he replied, “I suppose I can spare a moment,” as if she was an imposition, one more problematic grain of sand in his desert instead of being his sky. He chose an empty meeting room, a functional space containing only bare desks and ergonomic chairs. It was an unwelcoming environment for both a woman in evening dress and a slighted prince.

As soon as the door closed behind them, she blurted. “I need an answer - are you in an alliance with the Kuei-jin?”

He had not been expecting that, but he recovered well. “What? Preposterous! No Kindred would trust them, nor would they trust us. Did Jack tell you that? Because it sounds like you've been taken for a fool.”

“I was told by the Kuei-jin agents sent to steal the sarcophagus.”

He met her gaze without flinching, for he was a far more competent liar than he hoped she would ever need to know. “And you believed them? They've been trying to take over LA for years. It's a ruse - a falsehood, spread to undermine my rule and turn Kindred against each other - thin our ranks. They are duplicitous, evil creatures. Did they not try to kill you?”

For her, the truth was a far more rigid concept. “They did.”

“Insurance,” he said dismissively. “They lied to you in case you lived through the encounter. They hoped to create dissension in the ranks, rumors. It's a trick older than you or I.”

“Why is Míng Xiǎo is familiar with clan Ventrue?”

He had to keep talking. She would read much into the slightest hesitation. “Any supernatural leader would be wise to seek knowledge of our clan, given our position in Kindred society. And especially with you as a newcomer to Chinatown as my agent, and one who is familiar with the mortal society there.”

“Something she said made me uneasy.” Her gaze wandered over his shoulder before returning to his face. “‘The city is alight with news’ of the sarcophagus. You’ve said the same thing, Sebastian. ‘The city is alight with dread.’” She shook her head slowly. “Jonathan Rhineheart told me that he wanted to introduce me to someone with a newfound interest in the Oriental.”

He laughed, a bitter, sneering bark. “Oh, Rhineheart. Still he haunts me from beyond the grave. Who would have thought that his final mistake would be the greatest gift that I have ever received? Yet it disappoints me that an offhand comment by your sire—the same person responsible for your unwilling entrance into our society—and the allegations made by Kuei-Jin devils is enough to make you doubt me.” He brushed one finger along the strong line of her jaw. “I thought there was a level of trust between us after...everything.”

She closed her eyes, again the scared girl hoping that the monster before her would go away if she couldn’t see it. “Should a pawn trust in the king?”

“That depends on which king commands her loyalty,” he answered, tracing her full mouth with the lightest of touches.

She drew in a steadying breath. “A pawn should know her place,” she said, a hard edge hidden in her soft voice, “She takes her orders. Executes them. But sometimes, even a pawn can think.”

“I’m listening.”

“There are techniques that archaeologists use to study mummies without opening the sarcophagi or wrappings. Modern imaging, using CT scanners for example.” She recognised the uncomprehending look in his eyes. “X-rays? Radiographs? Never mind the details. What matters is that it will be able to give us an educated guess at the contents. At the very least, unless the sarcophagus is lined with metal, we should be able to tell if it contains human remains—bones, soft tissue.”

“Interesting,” he murmured, “But if it does contain something that used to be human, then we will still need to find a way to open the sarcophagus, and we will have wasted precious time.”

She still did not respond to his touch. “Then pursue both options. Beckett suggested that I go to a monastery in Malibu, where the Society of Leopold are holding the professor who discovered the sarcophagus. Send someone else to Malibu and let me find somewhere we can scan the sarcophagus.”

Perhaps it was more apt to call him the chess master rather than the defenceless king. As with every move, it came down to a cost-benefit analysis. “You have the rest of the night to do so. If you cannot do this by tomorrow evening, you must go to the monastery. There is no telling what the fanatics will do to the professor in order to draw me out.”

She took a step back, intent on creating a space between them. “Very well. If there’s nothing else?”

“Do not doubt that Bach will be there. You have survived a Tzimisce, and I know you are strong enough to defeat any mortal, but be careful. Some of those fanatics can manifest their faith in supernatural ways. Bach’s father and grandfather could do so, and it is not for nothing that he is considered their greatest hunter.” He wanted to close the distance between them, but he was not about to abase himself before her.

“Thank you for the advice. I should go. I have much to do.”She remained distant, a balloon in a child’s fingers about to drift away.

He reasoned that he still had need of her skills, so it was prudent to attempt a reconciliation. The alternative did not bear consideration. He essayed a bow. “I’m afraid that I’m not properly attired for the occasion, but may I have this dance?”

Laughter was not meant to have a defensive edge. “Now you’re just mocking me. It’s no longer common social convention to learn the waltz.”

“No, I was taught to dance the gavotte and the minuet. But the waltz was scandalous as it is far more...intimate. Everyone begins as a novice. I should like the honour of instructing you.” At her slight nod, he showed her where to put her hands.

The basic square step was not wholly unfamiliar to her despite her protests, and they swayed slowly in that beige space to an irregular beat, melting into each other’s arms by degrees, ever so often tangling a foot on a chair wheel or bumping a desk despite their best efforts. She induced a strange malaise in him. Even with the promise of power slumbering in his office, he did not see the need to rush back and unlock its secrets, nor to urge her to do so. Instead he could linger in this featureless room, murmuring apologies and listening to her laughter, burying his face in her neck and her hair.

“ _ Je pourrais rester ici avec toi pour toujours_,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. It was nothing.”

“Are you ever going to teach me French?”

“One night, _ ma douce._”

“Are Kindred more prone to procrastination, based on the assumption that they have an eternity to do with as they will?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been one to wait.” He pressed his cheek to hers as they swayed together. “Dance can teach much about a person. Learning to read your partner’s body, anticipating each other, moving together... You must decide your own truth about me. The words of others are filtered through their own agendas.”

“Sebastian,” she said, and his name in her mouth carried more power than he wished.

“Yes?”

“As much as I want to stay here—“

“Then stay,” he said, brusque, a little afraid of the effect that she had on him.

“If I must go to Malibu tomorrow...” she said in the voice of reason.

“It can wait. All of it can wait for us. Stay.”

“Procrastinating?” she asked with a smile as she put her arms around his neck. He lifted her onto a table before he undid the fabric buttons of her collar. As he pressed kisses along her exposed neck, she whispered, “I want to trust you. There’s nowhere that I feel safer than by your side.”

Sebastian reached out to turn the lock on the door before he let himself forget the world outside.

*

She rifled through the offices of the LaCroix Foundation until she found a measuring tape, then returned to Sebastian’s office. Beckett was still examining the sarcophagus, scribbling every so often in a battered notebook as he whistled a cheerful ditty. Sebastian looked up as she entered, emotion flashing across his face like lightning. It was the lingering gaze of a lover, a look that held her still before he gave her a small nod and looked back down at the spreadsheet before him, his princely mask twisting on his face. Sebastian, the prince, ever at war with himself. She wanted to ask him to give it all up and to run away with her, to forget power and wealth. But that was futile. This was the apex of a two hundred year trajectory, three mortal lifetimes of sacrifice and scheming. She had scorned men like him from afar, grasping and greedy, destructive in their insatiability, but the sum total of the man in front of her was far more than that. For all that, he was still a politician, his silver tongue with an answer for everything. Where did Míng Xiǎo fit into this? Who was she to believe?

This was pointless. She had a job to do. Rumination could wait.

It was awkward trying to measure the length, breadth and depth of a large sarcophagus while dressed in a gown. This was a fine example of the reason that she didn’t wear long skirts. One gloved finger planted itself on the end of her measuring tape and she looked up to see Beckett’s amused smirk.

“It would appear that some scholarly endeavours benefit from collaboration,” he said in his usual sarcastic drawl.

“That’s not the tune they sing at many universities,” she said, scrawling two point five metres on a piece of scrap paper. “And didn’t you say that the individual’s path was the only one worth pursuing?”

“If you prefer, I could leave you to it,” he pointed out.

“I appreciate the help, Beckett. If you could hang on to this—great.” One point two eight metres deep. She really should have written this in standard x, y and z format. “And over here. Thanks. How much do you think it weighs?”

“More than you, I’d wager,” he answered pleasantly. “Why the sudden interest in all these measurements?”

“Just an idea. Do you think that this is granite?” She could already see the deep gouges in the polished parquet floor. Whatever stone it was, it was heavy—in the range of tonnes. It had taken two vampires with Potence to move it, and once within Elysium without the benefit of some extra blood-fueled power, the sheriff and two others had been needed. A standard medical CT scanner—even a bariatric one—would not work. The museum might have specialist equipment. Perhaps she would have to go looking for a professor after all.

“Unfortunately I never was much of a student of geology, so I can’t comment.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “In any case, it’s almost dawn and I suggest that you and I should leave Sebastian and his goon to the day, hmm? After all, we wouldn’t want to impose.”

She nodded assent and followed the Gangrel, but couldn’t resist glancing at Sebastian as she left, sharing a look that said nothing but meant everything.She could feel his gaze as she shut the door behind her. Beckett continued to hum in several different keys as they stepped into the lift.

“Young Sebastian seems to have recovered his good humour after your private discussion,” Beckett said as the lift lurched downwards. “I do hope that this means you’re not planning to leave Professor Johansen at the hands of the Society of Leopold for too long.”

“That would be accurate, yes.” She was thinking about whether she could get into a hospital and commandeer a mobile radiographic unit. She didn’t know how to use one, but she could persuade someone into giving her a demonstration, or find an online user manual. Enough to get by.

“I like what you’ve done with your hair,” he remarked.

In the periphery of her vision, Beckett threw her a rather feline sidelong glance, but she kept her gaze fixed on the doors. Sebastian had ruined her elaborate coiffure in the meeting room, and she had let her hair down afterwards, but she was certainthat she had missed half a dozen hairpins. She replied after a brief pause, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I think that Sebastian was quite pleased with his handiwork.”

There was no plausible deniability. Beckett was not stupid. They would simply have to hope that beyond teasing her, his knowledge of the nature of their relationship held no interest. She attempted a weak deflection. “Sebastian tends to be rather self-satisfied at the best of times.”

“Does he now?” Beckett drawled, a smug smirk that rivalled Sebastian’s on his face. The lift came to a halt, and before the doors scraped open, he said, “Just be careful, young one. Kindred relations are no simple affair. I—speak from experience. Good luck in Malibu.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Je pourrais rester ici avec toi pour toujours= I could stay here with you forever.  
> If Google Translate butchered the phrase, I apologise.


	24. Hell is empty

Even though blood rushed through her veins and she felt invulnerable to mere bullets and knives, she still prowled in the shadows before she struck, snapping one hunter’s neck before stunning his friend into sleep and replenishing her reserves of power. She felt like a comic book superhero—or perhaps the supervillain. Dead or alive, people got drunk on power, and blood was power. 

No. This was the path to destruction. With every night that passed, she saw a little more clearly how men and women became undead monsters. They sought the stolen power of blood as well as the oldest of powers: the power over others. The Voerman personalities split the approach of money and sex. Isaac and VV seduced, manipulated. Gary watched and blackmailed. Strauss delved into the occult. Nines did not seem to seek power, but wielded it anyway, by inspiring awe and reverence. Sebastian...claimed sovereignty over a city. 

Thinking too much would get her killed. This dystopian existence had that much in common with the fictional ones that had lived in her head. She listened to see if she had caught the attention of any other hunters, but the only sound was a muttering from the jail cells along the water’s edge. She approached without bothering to muffle her footsteps: an enemy of the brotherhood was probably a friend. The figure in the cell recoiled at the sight of her, scrabbling back to cower at the far side of his cell. “No mo—...no more...no more f—...fire...oh, fire...” 

She knew that face, despite the cruel crosses branded across his forehead and cheeks. “Ash?” 

“You...”There was recognition in his voice. He limped up to the bars, but stayed out of arm’s reach. “They've ruined my face. The fire... I can still feel it in my wounds. They'll kill me, they'll come back with their brands and it will burn!” 

“Keep your voice down,” she whispered urgently. The last thing either of them needed was hunters flanking her. 

“I wouldn't talk, so they burnt me... again... and again... and again. Their eyes... they - they enjoyed it. Before they come back, I'm begging you... let me out!” 

“We’ll get you out, I promise,” she said, reaching an open hand through the bars, a universal gesture of peace, friendship. He flinched anyway, and she wondered how many times an open hand had struck him across the face. “I've got something that might help you heal up a few of those wounds.” The open hand was replaced with one offering a blood pack. 

“I once drank from the most desirable women in the world. Right now, this bag looks better than any of them.” He tore it open and sucked desperately. The brands on his face remained, but she suspected that greater injuries were hidden under his stained shirt. 

While Ash worked his way through the blood pack, she looked at the large padlock. One false move and she might break it irreparably, then it would be a wild hunt in search of a bolt cutter. “Ash. I’m going to look for the key. I’ll be back soon.” 

The blood had given him a little strength. “I know you will. Be careful. If they catch you, they’ll...” It would take more than blood to heal those wounds. 

Her rage did not make her reckless. They died, perhaps more violently than might have been the case, necks snapped, throats slit, shot up by their own friends. And after it was over, she picked over the pockets and belts of every hunter, pocketing any loose cash until she found a heavy metal key. Ash rushed to the bars when she saw her coming, eyes bright with the hope as he gripped the bars. She held up the key in wordless triumph before opening the padlock with care. 

When the door swung open, Ash looked dazed with disbelief. She took him by the elbow and led him out. “It’s going to be ok, Ash. They’re dead now. Most of them.” She looked back towards the gaping passage. “I’m going to finish the job.” 

The haze evaporated at the thought of the hunters. He glanced around like a terrified animal ready to bolt or to strike. “I can’t stay in this hellhole, not for one moment longer.” 

“Head to the right. The path behind me should be relatively empty, but if you prefer, we can escape together. I need to save a professor first.” Which meant she would have to kill everyone in this particular camp, or Professor Johansen would probably be killed by a stray bullet. 

“Thanks. You’ll never see me again. I’m gonna go somewhere no one will ever...see...this face again.” 

“You will heal, with time. Your face too.” She hesitated, then drew the Brokk out of its holster and pressed it into his hand. He needed it more than she did—the heavy McLusky was in the holster on her other hip. “Just in case. And some spare ammunition.” 

He looked at the gun in his hand for a long moment. “This world turns everyone into monsters.” 

“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.” She used the words of another when she had none. 

“Shakespeare. That brings back memories.” His eyes fluttered shut, but he assumed a regal posture. “To die, to sleep - 

To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, 

For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...” 

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” she replied softly. “I guess this is goodbye. Good luck, Ash.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fortitude is quite overpowered. Saved me from painful game combat mechanics many a time.


	25. The art of survival

Brakes screeched and she put a hand on the dashboard to catch herself. Her fingers came away tacky. In this case, ignorance was bliss, and she wiped her hand on her pants. 

“Looks like a cop roadblock up ahead, babygirl. I know you’re my best customer, but Fat Larry ain’t gonna drive through one, not even fo’ you.” 

“Around Venture Tower?” She frowned. “Drop me off, Larry. Keep the cargo safe for me. I’ll meet you back at the usual spot and arrange delivery later.” 

“S’long as you don’t take too long, babygirl. That shit’s takin’ up too much space in the back.” 

“Later, Larry.” She hit the ground running, then forced herself to slow to a walk when she caught sight of the police. The road in front of Venture Tower was cordoned off by cars, flashing red and blue lights turning the scene into an odd emergency disco. An officer blocked her path. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, ma’am. It’s not safe here.” 

“Please, I work for Mr LaCroix of the LaCroix Foundation. In that building.” Twisted, broken steel girders and shattered glass threw sharp shadows on the police cars. “Is Mr LaCroix all right? Please, let me through.” 

“There’s been a terrorist attack. Please leave, ma’am. This is an active investigation.” 

“Let. Me. Pass.” Nothing could keep her from Venture Tower. “And give me your ID.” 

His eyes glazed. “Sure thing, ma’am. You have a nice day now.” 

“You don’t remember meeting me. Go home.” She put on the LAPD lanyard, making sure the ID photo faced inwards and strode to the lobby of Venture Tower with confidence. Police photographers were taking photos of the debris, detectives were bagging samples, and everything looked very official until she walked into the lobby, pushing through the double door with an elbow. No one challenged her as she entered—indeed, the place was as silent as a crypt, if only because her only company in it comprised of several dead security guards. The lights were out, and she left it that way. No one needed to see her sneaking around in there. She wondered why the police seemed entirely uninterested in what had taken place inside the tower, and how much Sebastian had to do with it. 

The lift to the penthouse was as bloodied as the rest of the lobby, and the penthouse level was locked. She stepped out to call him using her mobile, and he answered just before it went to voice mail. 

“Sebastian? Are you all right?” 

He ignored the question, probably presuming the answer was self-evident. His voice was tight. “Where are you?” 

“The lobby.” 

“I’ll have the lift unlocked for you.” He hung up. This particular habit of his was starting to rankle. 

As promised, a few minutes later, the button for the penthouse level lit up. When she stepped out, a strong hand lashed out and seized her wrist, twisting it behind her back. A woman who was incongruously dressed in a black evening gown winked at the unseen assailant behind her. The woman twirled a lock of her dark, wavy bob around one finger as she bent down to look at Faye, who had been forced down onto one knee. “What have we here? Why, I think it’s LaCroix’s latest plaything.” 

The person behind her twisted her arm a little harder, and she bit her lip to stop herself from crying out. “This skinny thing?” Like the woman, he had a private school accent. He bent his face close to hers, and she surmised that he was cut from the same cloth as her sire. “Rather plain, isn’t she?” 

“Unhand me,” she said through gritted teeth. “This is Elysium. Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.” 

Their laughter was shrill. “This bitch thinks she can threaten us? This isn’t Elysium now, sugar. This is war. We’re here to protect the prince, so that means anyone here to see him has to pay their respects to us first.” 

Well, then. People had always underestimated her. They seemed to have forgotten that she had one hand free, and this was nothing compared to everything she had survived. Blood was power—the power to stand up to bullies, for one thing. She channelled it into the strength to punch the face of the vampire grappling her with enough force to crack bone, then to twist as he fell, slipping free of his grip to follow through with a kick to his upper abdomen. No ribs to protect him there, and it hurt even atrophied organs. The Sabbat had given her a firsthand lesson on that subject. 

The female vampire was screaming. “You bitch! I’ll kill you.” She produced a small, ugly knife from somewhere. 

Faye had become very good at the art of the fast draw, and she greeted the other vampire with a McLusky barrel in her face. “You should mind your manners,” she said. “You’re both Ventrue, aren’t you? It seems all the money spent on your education was wasted, if that’s best insult that you can formulate. Now, I’m going to see the prince—the person who employs us both, if you haven’t noticed. The two of you can try to stop me, but I would not advise that course of action. I’m not in the mood for bullshit.” 

“Enough. This is Elysium.” She lowered her gun, recognising Sebastian’s voice. He marched down the corridor towards them, cold fury on his face. “When I told you to unlock the lift, did I need to specify that my guest was not to be harassed? Perhaps your collective failure to stop even a single shovelhead is causing you some embarrassment, and you felt the need to overcompensate. Get out of my sight. You’ve done enough to disappoint me tonight.” The male Ventrue picked himself up with the female’s help, and they both glared at Faye before they made themselves scarce. 

Sebastian inclined his head. “In my office. Now.” He held the door open for her, then locked it behind them. There was blood on one of his cuffs. He went to the fridge and poured some vitae into a crystal glass, proffering it to her. “Drink?” 

She took it from him and gulped down a mouthful as he poured himself a glass. Hunger was the enemy. “Thank you.” 

He sank into one of the chairs by the fire, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he did and revealing another spatter of dried blood across his shirt. He gestured to her to sit next to him, and she complied. Swirling the blood in his glass and his head resting on his other hand, he said nothing for a long moment then exclaimed, “With whom do they think they’re dealing?! Attack me in my own building? They’re desperate... heh, they’ve shown their weakness. A last ditch attempt to claim the prize...” 

“You said there were shovelheads here—was it the Sabbat that left this mess?” 

“How observant of you,” he said with no real malice. “A pack of shovelheads with cheap pistols was all they could muster. Two got a few stories up, but... I took care of them. They had a small bomb with them, hence the damage.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the street. “My sheriff brought the rest to their Final Death in the lobby. He’ll patrol the streets around us until dawn. Sabbat animals.” The last words were spat with venom. 

“Why would they attack you here? That seems foolhardy, even by their standards.” She hesitated before resting a hand on his knee. 

“Why else? The motive of every Kindred in the entire city these last few nights: The Ankaran Sarcophagus. They've been misled into thinking the sarcophagus holds a sleeping ancient, their most coveted feasts. Diablerists!” Despite the anger in his voice, he put a hand over hers. 

“They drink the blood of other vampires?” 

He nodded, and she could see the fury ebbing away, leaving weariness in its wake. “The Sabbat's infamy is in no small part due to their practice of diablerie - that is, drinking the blood of other Kindred, especially older ones, until they are dead. Diablerists gain the power of those they've fed upon. In the Camarilla, this is an act punishable by death.” He lifted her knuckles to his lips, pressing kisses to the back of her hand. “Did you go to the Society of Leopold as you planned?” 

“Yes. Bach is dead. He did try to blow me up though.” She smiled at that. Strange how novel methods of attempted homicide had turned into sources of amusement. 

Sebastian smiled for the first time that night, baring his fangs in triumphant glee. “Not only did you infiltrate the Society of Leopold, but you managed to kill their greatest hunter! You are certainly developing a legend for yourself. Superb. A toast to you.” They clinked glasses. “And to Bach, may all his progeny meet such fates.” 

She winced at the reminder that she may have killed a father, even if it was in self-defence. When would it end? Every Bach lived long enough to father a child, and four generations later, there remained no end to the vendetta. How many other lives and families had she touched in the same way? How many still pursued Sebastian for a legacy of destruction? 

He did not notice her discomfiture. “Did you find out how my sarcophagus is opened?” 

“The missing crate from the Dane. It's a key to the sarcophagus.” 

“A key? Where? Do you have it?” Excitement lent him new energy. 

“No. I don’t know who has it. But I....borrowed a machine from the museum.” She stood, pulling free of his grasp. “I’m going to try to image the sarcophagus, and gather my thoughts.” 

He shrugged. “As you will. I have other matters to attend as well. For the time being, we've manipulated the press into reporting tonight's events as a terrorist attack. Then I can plan our next move.” He stood and caressed her cheek before leaning down for a tender kiss. “You will stay with me today, yes?” It was less a question than a statement. “I need—I want to know that you are safe. I will meet you in my rooms later. My key, should you require it. I suspect that I will be late. Consider all that I have to be at your disposal.” He tucked the key with the attached keycard into the pocket of her jacket. 

It was a touching show of trust. Had anyone else ever received such privilege from him? “Thank you. I’ll need to use the service lift.” 

“The keycard will unlock any lock in the building.” He pulled himself away with a sigh, straightening his jacket before buttoning it. 

“Sebastian? Before you go. I’m...glad that you’re all right.” She took hold of his lapels and rested her head on his chest, reluctant to let him out of her sight so soon. For a few minutes, the vision of a world without him had taunted her. She now understood why he often lingered, running his hands over her, as if he was assuring himself that she was really there. 

His voice was very gentle. “I am well versed in the art of survival,  _bien-aimée_ . I will see you very soon. The fools in this tower await their orders.” With that, he was gone. 


	26. A joke

He felt ridiculous having to be asked to be let in to his own quarters, but that was his reward for his impulsive behaviour. She answered on the second ring, and greeted him wearing a borrowed set of his own usual sleepwear. It was an arousing sight. 

She was experiencing no such thoughts, judging by how her gaze was fixed on his sabre. He set it down on the coffee table before he shed his suit jacket with a relieved sigh. 

“Expecting trouble?” she asked, and it was hard to tell if she was joking. 

“One can never be too prepared,” he answered, rolling up his sleeves before retrieving some cloths, a bottle of grease and a whetstone from a cupboard to attend to his weapon. 

She watched him work, absently towelling her damp hair. “How long have you had the sword?” 

“Sabre,” he corrected her as he tested the edge with a thumb. “Longer than you’ve been alive.” She was so young. Too young to have learned the folly of attachment. 

“Since Waterloo?” 

His gaze flicked to her, catching a glimpse of earnest dark eyes before he turned his attention back to the sabre. “Before that. A reminder of where I came from.” 

She made a small sound of assent, hugging her knees to her chest. “You had to kill the shovelheads yourself.” 

“You’ve seen a few of the vampires that I have to work with.” Even the mention of those imbeciles made his headache recur. “Perhaps you better understand my appreciation of your abilities.” 

“People don’t change, dead or alive. Perhaps clan Ventrue should revise its recruitment criteria,” she said in a deadpan voice, picking up the scabbard and examining it before offering it to him. He sheathed the sabre and went to put it by his bed. It had been some time since he had felt the need to sleep with a weapon to hand, but desperation made his foes dangerous. 

She followed him to the bedroom, arms wrapped around herself. “I need to talk to you. About the sarcophagus.” 

“What have you discovered?” Face turned away from her as he unbuttoned his shirt, he allowed himself to smile at the very recent memory of her bent over her ‘borrowed’ x-ray machine, muttering and swearing as she struggled to make it cooperate. Distracted by such a pleasant thought, her next words caught him entirely off balance. 

“It doesn’t contain any human remains. Just piles of...something, and a wires leading to a central device.” She pulled up some photographs of the grainy images on her smartphone. It was hard to tell what he was looking at, but it wasn’t bones. “Professor Johansen said that he received an anonymous tip that led him to it, and that he found the key nearby, which made him wonder how no one had plundered it in thousands of years. It was all very fortuitous.” He was silent, digesting all the information. Could it really be such a coincidence? “Something’s wrong, Sebastian.” 

What did it matter? If it didn’t contain an Antediluvian anyway—if it did not contain power... 

Sebastian’s laughter started low, building to a hysterical pitch, fangs bared in a manic smile. He sank onto the floor with his back against the wall, holding his head in his hands. “A joke!” he cried. “Ah, what a joke...” 

She knelt next to him. “Sebastian,” she said in a quiet voice, “Are you all right?” 

Small mirthless chuckles were still escaping from him. “How does Atlas hold up the world when even a single city is enough to crush me? I am surrounded by enemies, both seen and unseen, trapped in this city with cretins at my beck and call. I have wasted untold resources and time to secure this coffin that contains... something , and for what? Do you think I am all right?” 

Someone had baited a trap, just for him, and he would taken it, hook, line and sinker. How had he pinned so much hope on an unknown? Hope—that poisonous, lying thing. Hope was the thing that ruined lives, that made fools jump in where angels feared to tread, that led gamblers to bet just one more time, that propped up a thousand pyramid schemes. Even Napoleon in trying resurrect the dream of an empire had been a slave to hope. He barely noticed her dropping a kiss on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out together. It’s going to be okay.” 

“It’s—“ he trailed off, deflated. Any ignorance on her part was his doing. “I am going to shower.” 

When he emerged clean and no closer to a solution, she had fallen asleep at his desk, her head pillowed on one arm and ink smeared on her right hand and cheek. So young that she did not know how to properly use a fountain pen. A neonate so susceptible to solar influence that she fell asleep as the darkness of the night began to recede, long before the sun appeared on the horizon. Still a childe, one with a life that had been torn from her in exchange for an unwanted shot at eternity. He gathered her in his arms, her light frame feeling almost fragile despite the power that slumbered within. She would never have the chance to bloom, thanks to him. He glanced at her scribbles on the notepaper. A series of words were individually circled with scalloped lines. ‘Who. What. Why. Announce. Secret.’ 

He tucked her into bed after dabbing away the ink with a handkerchief, the fatigue of the night and the breaking dawn slowing his movements as he crawled in beside her. She looked even younger asleep, unconsciousness wiping away any tension. His lover, the epicentre of the events shaking the city of angels. Her unexpected Embrace. A ghost ship, floating offshore. A box. A sense of dread. A war waiting to happen. With these troubled thoughts, the sun broke over Los Angeles and a prince finally closed his eyes, dreaming of the twisted paths that always led him back to her.


	27. For Whom

He was watching her when she woke up. “Good evening,” he said, reaching out to brush hair away from her face.

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“Still early. Just after eight.”

“Mm.  _ Bā diǎn zhōng.  _ _Sǐrén xǐng lái_. ” Eight o’clock. The dead people rise. Very early indeed for the creatures of the night. She made no move to get up.

” _ Je ne parle pas chinois_,” he said with amusement. “Two can play at this game.”

“You’re the one who keeps speaking to me in a language that I don’t understand.” She stuck her tongue out at him, intentionally being juvenile. The world beyond these four walls was too complicated and too messy. Whatever this was, it was pure and simple.

“ _Il n'y a pas d'autre moyen de vous dire mes vrais sentiments_ ,” he replied.

She fluttered her fingers like a clucking hen, indicating her incomprehension. “Random fun fact. You know how the Skyeline apartment is on level four? Very fitting that I’m the current occupant, given that four is a homophone for death in both Mandarin and Cantonese.”

“Hm. No wonder I purchased it for a pittance.” At the reminder of the world that existed beyond these four walls, the furrow between his brows reappeared. He rolled closer, burying his face in her neck. “Let’s...steal a little more time together.”

“For someone who can live forever, you’re very parsimonious with your personal time.” For all that being with him was still new and wonderful, there was already a comforting familiarity to the feel of his body against hers.

“Is that what you call this?” He smiled down at her, but she could tell that he was giving it due consideration. “It’s a possibility of eternity, not a guarantee,” he finally said.

“I know,” she answered with equal solemnity as he reached up to pull off his t-shirt in one graceful movement and she ran her hands over his lean body. “Every night I have is a bonus. And what about you? Have you achieved all that you wanted in the last two hundred odd years?”

His hands stilled. “Of all nights to ask me that, tonight is not the best.”

“I thought you had hoped that the sarcophagus contained nothing supernatural.” The look on his face told her she had acrobatically introduced her foot to her mouth.

“Faye,  _ please _ .” The prince, pleading with her? “I don’t want to discuss it right now. I just—“ He made a frustrated sound, fingers tightening around her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, stroking the proud curve of his cheek with one thumb. “I just want to help.”

A spasm of emotion passed over Sebastian’s face before he kissed her with the urgency of a man who felt every second slipping away, with a passion that could kindle heat in even the dead. Nothing was meant to give her more physical pleasure than blood, but this was  more . The past was lost and the clock could never be rewound. A future eternity didn’t matter. It was uncertain, nebulous, so easily taken away. All that mattered was the present, the reality of a man that she loved, solid and undeniable under her hands, groaning her name in her ear, fair lashes fluttering over his sky-blue eyes, his hands and lips and teeth leaving no part of her neglected.

They ended up in a tangle of limbs, fingers intertwined. There were no words for a time, for it was no time for words. But time and tides wait for no one, not even a prince, and the buzz of his mobile phone ringing outside the room served as a harsh signal that the world outside had not forgotten them.

He was the one to pull away, his face already drawn tight with anxiety before he got out of bed. She followed him to the shower, both of them preparing themselves with habits born of efficient routine. As he combed his hair, she asked, “Do you know what you are going to do?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m guessing that you have a suggestion?”

“Regardless of whether you choose to investigate the origin of the sarcophagus, the question remains about what to do with this information. The options available are either announcing that it does not contain anything humanoid, and thus allaying the fears of the Kindred in the city, but revealing to whoever planted the sarcophagus that they failed. Or you could conceal your knowledge, and by doing so, perhaps use it to draw out some of your enemies.” She combed her hair back into a ponytail as she spoke, pulling a few strands loose to frame her face.

“You’ve given this some thought.” He came to stand behind her, resting one hand on her waist, and they both stared at their reflections, looking for all the world like a composed portrait, a photographer lurking in the wings to tell them how to pose.

“If others want the sarcophagus so badly, let them fight for it. Put the word out that you’re having it moved to a secure offsite location, ensure that a few of the more talkative members of your organisation find out. Then watch the fireworks.” She watched his face in the mirror as she laid it out.

“Very clever,” he said slowly. “And if we do lose the sarcophagus?”

“Install a GPS tracker if you really want to keep tabs on it. But someone led Johansen by the nose to both the sarcophagus and its key. Until proven otherwise, it seems safe to assume that it’s a Trojan horse of some description.”

He smiled despite himself. “Somehow, I am not surprised by your familiarity with Greek mythology, but we have already established that it not a Greek hero that will leap out, no?”

“Unless said Greek hero can fool modern imaging techniques. Which seems unlikely.”

“There is another problem. What if the sarcophagus falls into the hands of the person who possesses the key?” he asked with an arched eyebrow and an air of cool curiosity, as if all that they were discussing was where they should have dinner.

“I...did not consider that,” she admitted. She should have, but she had never really gotten into chess and its convoluted stratagems of trying to think twenty moves ahead. She simply tried to break problems down into their component parts, progressing down binary pathways of possible outcomes. “If they open it, we’ll find out what’s inside, one way or another. Locate it, plant cameras, hack into CCTV, send spies. If they don’t, then we are no worse off than we started, but hopefully we have made them expend resources and show their hands.”

“The other problem is the Sabbat. We now have the location of their hideout, and they must be removed before they reveal all of us to the mortals." She could feel him tense, a man who had lived through humanity's escalating wars.

“Where are they?”

“The Hallowbrook Hotel—it’s been abandoned for years. Mere blocks from here, and it’s taken us all this time to find it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “In any case, we finally have the location, and I’m afraid that I must again ask much of you.”

“You want me to go?” She swallowed hard, remembering the promise of a death by a thousand cuts.

He placed his other hand on her abdomen, dropping a kiss to back of her neck. “I wish it were not so, but only you have the strength and tenacity to succeed in this. You are far stronger than any shovelhead, and even the Tzimisce fled from you.”

She wrenched around to face him. “Why don’t you send the sheriff?”

“Because unless he accompanies the sarcophagus, no one will believe that I am moving it—and if your gambit works, travelling with the sarcophagus will prove even more risky.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I am tired of chaos and turmoil. I want to unite this city and to usher in an age of stability. We’ll rule side by side, you and I.”

“I’m not in this for power. I’m doing this for you.”

He kissed her on the mouth this time. “I know. And that is why I must win: for your sake as much as mine.” He drew a perfectly spherical stone the colour of milk out of a pocket and placed it in her palm, wrapping her fingers over it. “Take this. I bought it off a peddler a long time ago. He said it would make me a better swordsman. Perhaps it was just my belief that it would make me so, but it worked, and it’s yours now.”

“Thank you.” It felt warm in her hand, and when she tucked it into a pocket, the weight was comforting. If nothing else, it would serve as a reminder of why—or rather, for whom she kept fighting.

“We should still locate the sarcophagus key, if only to better plan our next move. That will have to wait until your return.” His phone was ringing again and he silenced it with an impatient motion.

“ _Zàijiàn_ , ” she said. “It means goodbye, and we will meet again.”

“ _À bientôt_ ,” he said with a smile. “We will see each other again, very soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Google Translate:  
> Je ne parle pas chinois=I do not speak Chinese  
> Il n'y a pas d'autre moyen de vous dire mes vrais sentiments = There is no other way to tell you my true feelings
> 
> The present from LaCroix is an ingame item called the Heart of Eliza (https://vtmb.fandom.com/wiki/Heart_of_Eliza), which is useful for people like me who belated decide to scrape the bare minimum required to use to Tal’Mahe’Ra blade, mainly for that ridiculous jingle on stealth assassinations.


	28. The avalanche

LaCroix spread a map of Los Angeles over his desk. For all that digital technology had to offer, sometimes it was hard to truly grasp the scale of things when the parting and meeting of forefinger and thumb was enough to turn a hundred miles into an inch. He bent over the map, feeling old. Once upon a time, wars were waged with messages borne as fast as a running horse or a running man. Now in this world of action and instant reaction, without so much as the inertial swing of a pendulum to catch one’s breath, the margin for error was small indeed.

There was no choice in the matter. The avalanche had started, the ground shifting under his feet, and he wondered if he had really been the one who had kicked the first pebble.

He addressed the Kindred gathered around the table, a little gaggle of his most talkative and unreliable personnel, with a few expendable or overly opinionated Camarilla loyalists to make his selection less overt. “As you are doubtless aware, maintaining the Masquerade in this city after last night’s debacle has proven rather expensive and inconvenient. Venture Tower is a major landmark, and the kine are rather sensitive to attacks in heavily populated areas these days, for obvious reasons. Until Beckett can offer more insight into the nature of the sarcophagus and its contents, I have decided that it must be relocated to a safe haven on the outskirts of the city, here.” He planted his finger on the location of a refrigerated warehouse that was previously used to move shipments of blood. “Naturally, the transit will be risky, as our custody of the sarcophagus is not news to anyone of note in the city by now. There will be four teams driving identical trucks via different routes, of which only one will contain the sarcophagus. My sheriff will proceed directly to the location to ensure that it secure, and the trucks will depart in two hours. I need not emphasise the importance of utmost secrecy to ensure that the sarcophagus reaches its destination without interference. Do you understand?” At their nods, he continued, “Bring whatever weapons and assistance you require, ghouls included. Make no mistake, we are at war. The Sabbat and Kuei-Jin will stop at nothing to get at the sarcophagus. Do not fail me.”

The bait was once again cast into the open, and they would see who took it. With a curt nod, he dismissed the Kindred. When he was certain that all of them were out of earshot, he turned to the sheriff.

“Load the truck that Devereux’s team will be taking. Watch from up high. Do not be seen. Do not interfere if the sarcophagus is diverted—follow it. Get someone from tech to hide a GPS tracker on it as backup. We shall see how the night plays out.”

*

She pulled away the boards from a window overlooking the fire escape and swung herself out, jumping down to the ground level in the alley behind the Hallowbrook Hotel. After ensuring that she was alone, she reached under a dumpster, finding the duffel bag that she had stashed there, slipping the shotgun and her new sword into it. She checked herself for any obvious blood stains before she walked out onto the street, only to be greeted by Míng Xiǎo, who blended into the grimy streets of downtown LA about as well as a three-tiered wedding cake in a hardware shop.

“Be at peace, Kindred, you stand among friends now.”

She didn't bother to hide her scepticism. "Is that so?"

“Your foes all lie vanquished, Kindred. I come to help. Be at peace. Trouble is nothing but yours to give.” The amount of sugar that Míng Xiǎo injected into her words had an exponential relationship to Faye’s level of suspicion.

“I am not looking for trouble,” she said warily, adjusting her grip on the duffel bag.

"A true friend in death is as true love: precious, rare and sweet. Pray your senses have not gone so languid that this blessing cannot be savoured." Faye did not like the implication of her flowered words. Did Míng Xiǎo know?

“A true friend, or a friend of convenience?” she asked, shifting her weight from foot to foot. No, she was not here for a fight. The  _guǐ rén_ wanted a supernatural errand girl, and these nights she had the best résumé for that particular role.

“We are in a position to help each other, yes; is it impossible, then, that my admiration is genuine, Kindred? Can friendship truly be founded in nothing? Or must there be nothing to gain in order for friendship to be true?”

“Your agents weren’t interested in making friends,” she replied. She didn’t bother to point out that attempting to kidnap and experiment on someone would not have been considered sociable by most standards as well.

“Indeed. The Chang brothers, my greatest agents, undone by the young soldier of LaCroix. It was obvious your path was greater than I, or he, had anticipated.” The implied familiarity between them stung more than their low expectations of her.

“You sound impressed.”

“I am impressed, Kindred. That is why I’ve come to reveal to you the truth, so that you may see that you are not the fist of LaCroix but the hand that will put the final events of this war into motion.” Míng Xiǎo made a fist, then a sweeping open palm to make her point. “I have come to see your significance, and I know it was no accident that our paths have converged.”

She had to know. “What's this about an alliance between you and LaCroix?”

The self-proclaimed priestess flicked her long hair, jade eyes watching her intently for a reaction. “We did have an  arrangement , LaCroix and I. A mutually beneficial pact to drive the lesser factions from the city.”

She forced her jaw to unclench. “What happened to this arrangement?”

“LaCroix's zeal in recovering the Ankaran Sarcophagus has been to the exclusion of many relationships... mine included. And I, like yourself, have been used by him in his desperate quest for power.” She sounded like a spurned lover.

Faye made herself to respond, for a dead heart should feel no pain. “How did he use you?” Even saying it made her feel sick.

“LaCroix feared Alistair Grout, the Malkavian primogen - for the cursed insight of his bloodline was strong and brought him uncomfortably close to the truth about LaCroix's ambitions.”

And did she think were those ambitions? She answered Míng Xiǎo with studied indifference, “And so?”

“LaCroix saw an opportunity to rid himself of two problems - a hardened rebel leader and a problematic primogen - in one fell stroke. And, as you can see, I was integral to the plan.” Míng Xiǎo took one step backwards and arched her back, her mouth contorted open in a silent scream. Her limbs stretched, flesh folding and rippling, then as Faye took hold of her handgun, it was Nines Rodriguez that stood before her.

Nines. Grout. LaCroix. The shape of the truth was taking on a deadly edge, but she couldn’t allow herself to bleed, not here. Her question meant for Sebastian, even if it was Míng Xiǎo that stood before her. “Why did you agree to do this?”

“LaCroix convinced me that an alliance with the Camarilla could strengthen the position of the Kuei-jin. And so, with my help, your prince framed Nines Rodriguez for the murder of Alistair Grout.” Hearing it said aloud was like a physical blow that no vampire powers could deaden.

The cold, rational part of her mind took over. If Míng Xiǎo was so determined to be chatty, she would extract every last piece of information from her. There would be time later to sift the truth from the lies. The  guǐ rén  expected her to be an ignorant peasant? Then that was what she would be. “Why did you need to strengthen your position?”

“Our war with the Anarchs has taken its toll. A truce with the Camarilla allowed us to marshal our remaining forces and focus on a lone enemy.” It was logical. Who had thought of it first? LaCroix? Míng Xiǎo? Who had approached the other?

“And so you were the one I saw at Grout's mansion.” Instead of a question, it came out as an accusation.

“Yes. You were made to be the witness, for your political naiveté put your word beyond reproach; no one would believe you'd devise such a story. LaCroix used you and once again turned a problem to his advantage.” There was a look of genuine admiration on her face.

“He and I have come a long way since then,” Faye said in a quiet voice, for she had never been very good keeping her heart off her sleeve.

“ Ah, _kělián de xiǎohái,_ ” she said, dripping saccharine false sympathy, “You are no more to him than an entry on his ledger; a sum of that which can be bled from you.”

Being called a pitiful child gave her no inclination to keep playing this game. “So why are you questioning your alliance with him?”

She had learned to recognise the prodromal signs of a monologue by now, and thus was unsurprised when Míng Xiǎo launched into one. “Our dealings with LaCroix have put his integrity into question. He has become careless. His desire for the sarcophagus seems to have superceded all other concerns, including political discretion. It's obvious to me that he wishes to obtain it only so that he might use its power against those who would oppose him. If he betrays his own kind in these pursuits, can I trust him to honor our allegiances? Can you?” At her answering shrug, the priestess barrelled on. “You need to understand that you are a liability, Kindred. Once LaCroix finds the right moment, you will be disposed of, just like he did with Alistair Grout, Mr. Rodriguez, your sire, and countless others. Even now, your own significance is lost on you. You are in a unique position. You weren’t put on this path to be a slave to these foreign devils. No, child, you were meant to advance the interests of your people.”

“ _Xiànzài wǒ yěshì guǐ rén? Zuótiān wǒ shì wài rén_. ” Now I am also one of you? Yesterday I was an outsider. People did not change. Dead or alive, she was only welcome when someone wanted something from her.

Míng Xiǎo's cherry blossom lips clamped together in anger, unaccustomed to anything less than grovelling acceptance. "Hear these words, Kindred. The sarcophagus is sealed against the ages; only the proper key will break this seal. That key now lies safely in Kuei-jin hands. Your prince's prize cannot be had without it."

“ _Xièxiè nǐ gàosù wǒ,_ ” she said, lapsing back into Mandarin as if that was something that they truly had in common, in the bland tones of someone who had been informed that a takeaway coffee was ready for collection. Thank you for telling me.

The  _guǐ rén_ replied, “ _Wǒ xīwàng wǒmen néng zài jiànmiàn zuòwéi péngyǒu_.” I hope that we will meet again as friends.

Even her innate optimism didn't stretch that far. “ _Zàijiàn_.”


	29. The measure of lies

Mercurio’s anachronistic sartorial choices were accentuated by the dour, modernist lobby of Venture Tower, a splash of purple like a flower of the seventies lost in the desert of the twenty-first century. He bounded out of his seat with nervous energy, greeting her with a cheerful slap on the back. “Hey, just the girl I’ve been looking for. LaCroix said to come find him when you showed up.”

She allowed herself to be led to the offices, noting the unusual hum of activity. Vampires and ghouls alike were tapping on keyboards, arguing with each other through earpieces, rushing around with folders or heavy bags, and a fair few that simply stood around looking harassed. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Trouble with the Sabbat,” he replied. “Sounds like LaCroix was pretty pissed off about what happened last night. He’s got squads of Camarilla combing the city for every last shovelhead. The Anarchs are whining about all the action, but they ain't out there sticking their necks out to clean up the place.”

This was news to her, but it wasn’t the only thing that LaCroix had neglected to mention. “Looks like a large scale operation.”

“Yeah, sure is. If you ask me, bout time we kicked those Sabbat assholes out for good.”

“What about the Kuei-Jin?” she asked.

“What about them?” he echoed. “I think they’re staying out of the way for now.” He rapped on a set of double doors, one of which opened a crack to reveal an unfriendly stare, “Tell the boss that his fledgling is here.” The door slammed shut.

"Hmm." She exchanged glances with Mercurio. "I suppose this is the part where we stand around waiting while we obstruct the corridor?" As if to make her point, a woman in a three piece suit brushed past them with a glare.

The ghoul ran his hands through his hair, foot tapping without rhythm on the floor. "LaCroix wanted to see you asap. We’ll wait here for the boss.”

The doors were shoved open, the bulk of the sheriff squeezing through with a creak of leather, red eyes unblinking as he ducked his head to clear the doorway. She and Mercurio pressed themselves along the opposite wall as Strauss crab-walked past, acknowledged her with a murmured 'neonate', untroubled by the proximity forced by the sheriff's size. She glimpsed LaCroix speaking into a laptop before he packed it away, his movements always measured when he was in the public eye. Two vampires hurried after Strauss, their fashion sense clearly dictated by their primogen's love of the red hue of blood and ornate jewellery. Such a curious world, that clothing could so clearly indicate one's allegiances, yet as a human, she would have just shrugged and dismissed them as members of some obscure subculture. A few corporate lackeys shuffled past, sizing her up with undisguised curiosity, clearly students of the school of Ventrue or Toreador sensibilities. LaCroix brought up the rear with laptop in hand, the pale blue of his eyes unable to conceal the dilation of his pupils when his gaze fell on her. "You're back," he said, the self-evident statement unusual for a man more accustomed to using words to cut people down to size. "Let's talk in my office."

The sheriff led them to the lift, clearing the way with the efficacy of a medieval battering ram. LaCroix fell into step beside her, Mercurio hovering behind his shoulder. The lift groaned as the sheriff entered, but it seemed LaCroix had faith in its structural integrity, gesturing for her to enter with a small flick of a hand and following her. Mercurio followed without invitation, earning himself a cool glance from the prince, but he did not comment. When they arrived at the penthouse level, they headed to the office in the same odd procession. The sheriff took up his new station outside the door, and LaCroix held the door open for her, then attempted to close the door in Mercurio's face before the ghoul could follow.

"Uh, Mr LaCroix, I just thought that, well, it's that time of the month, so—“

"Not now," was the curt reply.

She had never heard this desperate whine in Mercurio's tone before, not even when he was begging her to not be a tattletale. "But, sir, it's—“

"Was I not clear? I said  later ." The door closed, and then they were alone. He stared at her, more beautiful than any angel ever painted, before he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Despite that, he was straight to business. "The Sabbat?"

"The Tzimisce is dead." His affection was almost unbearable. But maybe he was no different to any of the others. They all wanted something of her.

"Another obstacle is removed. From the anomy, we resurrect a new order. With the head of the snake removed, the rest shall slither out of the city." His breath was cool on her skin. "Even my sheriff was never able to wipe them out completely. My unstoppable crusader... My victories in this city are in no small part due to you. You've done what I asked without question, and you've done it well." For the second time that night, she was being regarded with admiration.

She folded her arms. "Míng Xiǎo said to tell you that the alliance is off."

"This nonsense again! Look, I told you before: No Kindred would ever ally themselves with those... demons. This is a subterfuge, a trick to start a civil war... and apparently it's worked." His outrage was a little too deliberate.

"You had to do it," she said. "To bring the LA Anarchs under control." She had always been a good student, and he had taught her much by now.

He arrived at the same realisation, and when he spoke, his tone was guarded. "It was a difficult decision to make. But I only did it for the greater good. The Kuei-Jin did not question my scheme, but I did it to bring all Kindred under Camarilla govern. And I did so only so that we could finally wipe out the Kuei-Jin, united!"

"You lied to me." The measure of lies hung between them, a heart and a feather on golden scales. "She seemed to know you quite well."

"I lied to protect you," he snapped. "The Tremere have ways of ripping knowledge from a person's mind. And as far as Ming Xiao is concerned, she was never any more than an ally of convenience, whatever she would like to think."

There were so many things that she could have and should have asked him. How could he go to such lengths? What else had he done to become prince? Was she too just another ally of convenience? Or was she, in fact, still just a pawn?

She chose to avoid the chance of pain. Instead she told him, "Míng Xiǎo has the key to the sarcophagus."

"Ah. That makes sense. They did not seek the sarcophagus tonight, because they have the luxury of waiting in a fortified position."

She walked over to the windows, and Sebastian joined her, brushing his fingertips against hers. Tendrils of fog clung to the city, veiling its lights and hiding any trace of the supernatural conflict being waged. "What happened tonight?" she asked.

"Your plan worked. I hope the Hallowbrook Hotel was not too crowded, as there were several Sabbat packs gunning for the sarcophagus. Needless to say, they were ill-equipped compared to my personnel. The sarcophagus reached its destination, and is currently under heavy guard.” His smile was grim. “I think the move surprised Strauss. He generously offered some of his acolytes as guards.”

“A show of Camarilla unity? Or as spies?”

“I’m turning you into a cynic,” he murmured. “But the latter seems more plausible. The Nosferatu have finally managed to get eyes in Chinatown, and the Kuei-Jin are preparing for war. We need the Anarchs.”

“I doubt that the Anarchs are likely to trust you after what you did to Nines.” She could not help the anger in her voice.

“It's not a matter of trust... it's a matter of who they dislike more: The Camarilla or the Kuei-jin. The Kuei-jin killed their last leader and threaten all of our kind. I think they'd agree to an alliance. As of this moment, there is no blood hunt against Nines Rodriguez.” The lines of his face were sharp, unforgiving. Blood hunt or not, Nines and Sebastian would never coexist easily.

“That seems insufficient motivation to join you in your war,” she pointed out. Damsel and Skelter were hardly about to fall over themselves praising LaCroix for calling off the blood hunt, so he could forget about them putting their skins on the line for him.

“Go to the Last Round, immediately. Tell them the Kuei-jin have admitted to killing Grout and that the blood hunt against Nines Rodriguez is officially over. Tell them I have realized the true threat the Kuei-jin pose and wish to negotiate a pact. You will be my emissary for the alliance, so naturally, you speak on behalf of the Camarilla. Choose your words carefully. I will begin organizing plans for war. Together, we Kindred shall drive out these foreigners once and for all!” He was obviously practicing a speech on her.

She watched blankly as he said it all to her with a straight face. She had spent her life as an outsider, and thus far, death had been much the same. To the Camarilla, she was a sign of LaCroix’s weakness and inability to oust the Anarchs. To the Anarchs, she was a Cammy bitch, and one who had framed Nines at that. To the Kuei-Jin, she was a stolen vassal who should have been a double agent. To the prince, she was an unwanted complication. To Sebastian—

He was saying, “Good luck - the prosperity of all this city's Kindred depends on your success tonight.”

“No pressure,” she said in a wry tone.

He smiled, his eyes softening as he held her gaze. “I know that you are the only one who can accomplish such a task. You are—you’re far better than I deserve, which is the only thing on which Isaac Abrams and I agree.” He took her hand, ran his thumb over the ridge of her knuckles. “A few minutes of your time, if you will?” He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and drew out a small jewellery box. “My last gift to you was a pragmatic one. This is for...sentiment.” An enormous pearl that was bound in a delicate gold mesh net was turned in the light for her to admire.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “But it looks like it belongs in a set of crown jewels.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “In chess, a pawn can be promoted to a queen, once she has survived crossing enemy lines and made it to the other end of the board. It’s called the Pearl of Dubai—it’s unique, as you are. A small token of my regard. May I?” He draped it around her neck, closing the clasp with small precise movements that stirred her hair.

She cupped the pearl in the palm of her hand, and wondered how many medical school scholarships it would have bought. “I can’t take this, Sebastian.”

“I want you to have it.” His tone brooked no argument. “I’ve...upset you, but that was not my intent. Allow me to make amends.”

“I don’t need baubles.” Forgiveness was not so easily purchased.

His brows drew together. “It’s not a question of need. I want to give it to you—must it be more complicated than that?”

“I suppose not.” War was coming. She didn’t want to waste this time by arguing, even if she was frustrated with him. “Sebastian, this war...I’m scared.”

His mouth twisted, then he took her into his arms, cradling her head as she pressed her face to the crook of his shoulder. “Come back to me as soon as you have spoken to Rodriguez. You have nothing to fear. With the combined strength of the Camarilla and Anarchs, we will not lose.”

“I don’t even know why I feel so afraid,” she murmured. “This sense of dread, that everyone thought was due to the sarcophagus—I know it can’t be that, yet...”

His grip on her tightened. “War is frightening,” he said in a soft voice. “You’ve never experienced it, no? I wish I could spare you this, but that is not an option. You and I will survive this, together.” He kissed her temple. “You must go find Rodriguez now. It cannot wait any longer.”

“I will,” she promised. “I will see you soon.”

“Very soon,” he said, his voice ragged. “Good luck.”

*

Jack set down the empty fuel can and walked a little way so that he could get a clear view of the lower tram station, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and lighting it. At that distance and in the dark, only a vampire could have seen that it was a yellow cab that pulled out of the parking lot, but he didn’t have to look to know that it was the case. The tram line cranked into life nearby, and he waited, savouring the cheap tobacco. When he figured that it was time, he flicked the cigar butt into the air, tracing a bright arc before it landed, flames blooming outwards from the point of impact.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he said to no one in particular. “Shame, really. You’re smart—too smart. You won’t like this change of plan, but hey, we all gotta do what we gotta do.”

The fire was roaring now, the wind whipping it towards the observatory. Jack whistled as he walked away. The night was far from over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://vtmb.fandom.com/wiki/Pearl_of_Dubai  
> Because wearing expensive jewellery makes one more charismatic.  
> The end is nigh! Well, looming over the horizon, at any rate.


	30. The endgame

LaCroix took his seat at the head of the heavy mahogany table, the faces of the assembled primogen looking back at him with new curiosity. He checked to see if he had their undivided attention before speaking. “Good evening. It is good to see you all here. I come bearing good news this evening. The Sabbat in this city have been...eradicated.” They were less impressed than was deserved. He took a moment to conceal his annoyance before continuing. “Despite this victory, I do not intend to rest on my laurels. The threat of the Kuei-Jin remains. New information has come to light regarding the murder of Grout—the Kuei-Jin leader herself, Ming Xiao, has confessed to murdering Grout and framing Nines Rodriguez. The blood hunt against Rodriguez is over. We must exact retribution on our true enemy.”

Strauss adjusted his spectacles. “Perhaps this misstep with Rodriguez might have been avoided, had my advice been heeded.”

LaCroix’s teeth scraped together, and he had a fleeting, absurd thought that it was just as well that his fangs could not be blunted, not even by having to deal with the primogen. “If the Tremere have any insights into how to see past the disguises used by the Kuei-Jin, we are listening. I’m told that some of them can remake their flesh into whatever they wish. You have nothing to add, Strauss? Very well. My fledgling is currently negotiating an alliance with Rodriguez. I am confident that the Anarchs will be willing to set aside their grievances for the sake of ousting the Kuei-Jin.”

Wellesley had been silent up to now, thin lips curled in disdain. “You left something so vital to a mere fledgling, and one who was Rodriguez’s accuser? Perhaps your intentions in this matter are not so transparent as you would have us believe.”

“As we have previously discussed, Rodriguez and Faye are acquainted. The man sees himself as a saviour, and he will not risk that reputation by rejecting the fledgling after all his bluster in the courtroom.” There more truth in that statement than he wished. Rodriguez had a soft spot for her. LaCroix fully intended to exploit it, but he resented it regardless. 

Gary was checking his phone in a display of a complete lack of respect, but before LaCroix could rebuke him, the Nosferatu’s eyebrows twitched. “That’s...interesting. Griffith Park is on fire. The werewolves are going to be out for blood.”

There was a hurried knock on the door before Smith barged in, eyes wide. “Sir, pardon the interruption. I have an urgent phone call for you. It’s one of the Anarchs. She says it’s about your fledgling.”

“Excuse me,” he said to the primogen as he got to his feet, a familiar knot of dread forming in his gut. He left the room to take the call, the mention of his lover overriding all else.

“You traitorous bastard! You sent your little bitch to talk to Nines, and Griffith Park is up in flames, and Nines is missing! I should have never trusted you fucking Cammies!”

“You are the one called Damsel, correct?” If he gripped the phone any harder, it would crack. “She is not responsible for the fire. Where is she?”

“How the fuck should I know? If I did, I’d be over there, breaking every bone in her useless body with a sledgehammer! Fuck you, LaCroix. You’re going to get what’s coming to you.” The volume of the Anarch’s screeching made him hold the phone away from his ear.

“I sent her in good faith.” Even when the ground was falling away beneath him, he remembered that he was the prince, and that this was the endgame. “This is not the time for divisions amongst Kindred. The Kuei-Jin will destroy us if we do not unite against them.”

“Kiss my ass, you prissy piece of shit.” The line went dead.

He went to the window and looked north towards Griffith Park. As promised, there was a red glow that was not the sunrise. Her phone rang out, once, twice, thrice, and then he was marching back to the meeting room, unable to do anything else but carry on.

Joyce was pacing the room, running a hand through the mess of his hair. “You and Gary have had dealings with her,” he said to Strauss. “Do you think it’s possible?”

Strauss frowned, but his voice never lost its careful modulation. “There has always been much about her that was unexplained. Even from the night of her Embrace, I could sense the power of her blood. She has learned to harness this power at an unprecedented rate.”

They did not see the need to interrupt their conversation just because LaCroix had returned to the room. He cleared his throat. “Of whom do you speak?”

Strauss stared at him, one gloved hand cupping his chin. “We speak of your fledgling, of course.”

“She was seen leaving Griffith Park,” Gary rasped. “Rodriguez’s whereabouts are unknown.”

Joy and fear pulled him in opposite directions with the agony of a man being drawn and quartered. She was alive. But what now? Wellesley was the one who broke the brief silence. “If she is responsible for the death of Rodriguez—“

“There is no reason for her to do such a thing,” he snapped.

Wellesley continued despite his outburst, her pinched face smugly satisfied. “We must consider where her true allegiances lie.”

His spine turned to ice. “What do you mean?”

“The fledgling had a little chat with Ming Xiao tonight, yes?” Gary delicately toyed with a cuff link with a clawed finger. “And you see, there’s the question of her heritage...”

He was being backed into a corner with no escape that he could see, but he made a feeble attempt regardless. “With Rhineheart as her sire?”

“They mean what she was in life,” Joyce said. “Perhaps she feels more kinship with the Kuei-Jin—they are not so alien to her as they are to us.”

There was a way out. He had told her before—he was well versed in the art of survival. There was no victory without sacrifice.

LaCroix knew that the best lies contained a kernel of truth. “How could she betray me, after I treated her as my own childe? She has chosen to be a Kuei-Jin puppet? Then she shall reap what she sows. There is a blood hunt on her, effective immediately. Notify the Anarchs of this, and that we will bring justice to Rodriguez’s murderer.”

The primogen were all vampire elders, all masters at concealing their emotions, or perhaps all of them had lost the ability to feel anything but the rush of blood. After that, it was all strategy, chess pieces to be moved upon a board. Pawnsand bishops and queens to be sacrificed to protect the king. The world on his map could be likened to a chessboard: simple, orderly. It just also happened be beyond his reach, an illusion that ghosted under his fingertips, no more substantial than fog, a hollow image that he had tried to impose on everything around him.

He kept himself upright, proud, a soldier who would never surrender, a cast tin toy who had won a Pyrrhic victory. He made it through the doors of his office, telling the sheriff to make certain that he was undisturbed. What did it matter? They’d known enough to use her against him. Somewhere out there, in the scattered lights below his high tower, she was out there, and by his word, she would be prey. His promising protégée, his sweet fledgling, his innocent lover.

“Faye,” he whispered to the sky, a name that was now bittersweet on his tongue and lips. “ _Je suis tellement désolé. _ _Pardonne moi. S'il te plaît pardonne-moi mon amour_. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Translate fun again:   
> Je suis tellement désolé. Pardonne moi. S'il te plaît pardonne-moi mon amour= I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive me, my love.


	31. Only the truth

She ran despite the deep claw wounds across her back aflame with the smallest movement, almost blacking out with the pain. The werewolf followed, panting and grunting, claws scraping along the stairs, the metal groaning under its weight. She stumbled through the doors of the observatory, falling against the control panel. The werewolf howled as it tried to jam its body through the door, then she flipped the switch, backing away into the far corner of the room as it whimpered and whined, the colossal doors closing inexorably. It took a long time for it to die.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and it was not clear who she was talking to. She limped back to the tram station, finding the bag that she had discarded in her haste and pulling out a blood pack that was quickly consumed. Shouldering her bag, she went to the cliff edge, looking to see if there was any movement below. She decided to risk it, and shouted, “Nines? Nines?” Then, “Sebastian? Sebastian!”

She woke up with a jolt, eyes wet. Jack was shaking her shoulder. “Wake up. Look alive, kid. You’d better be on your feet and ready to move.”

“Jack?” She blinked and rubbed her eyes, the rest of the previous night falling into place—the white-knuckled tram ride back down, and Jack waiting for her at the lower tram station, hustling her into the car. Somewhere safe, he had said, and she had answered, her downtown apartment or Venture tower, both of which he rejected out of hand, and then he had sped them both to Santa Monica. She had been too shell-shocked to question him then, curled in the passenger seat as her wounds healed. “What’s going on?”

Smiling Jack’s expression was not living up to his name. “Get ready to run. Take everything you need. You're never coming back here.”

She struggled out of the sleeping bag, vision going black as she stood. She needed to feed. “Why? What’s happened?”

“LaCroix put out the word - he says you're in league with the Kuei-jin, Ming-Xiao's puppet, that you're the one who set up Nines for her. See, he's figured it all out, and now your death is a big bullet point in his new unity campaign. There's a blood hunt on you.” As he spoke, the world seemed to wobble on its axis.

“I’m in league with the Kuei-Jin?” she asked, dumbfounded, and she was the deer in the headlights, crushed by the realisation that she was different, that she would always be seen as such, and that this war was about the elimination of differences.

“He had to turn things around on you real quick since you found out about his deal with Ming-Xiao. This is his Plan B. Plan A was to kill you and Nines in Griffith Park. Now LaCroix is playing the victim. The way he tells it you were like his own child, he entrusted you with so much... and you took full advantage, sold out to the Kuei-jin and cost the people their hero. They're saying Nines is dead and you killed him.”

She swallowed her first reaction. Listen.  _Think_. “Why would he...? That doesn’t make any sense.” They were close. She loved him. It couldn’t be true. Could it?

The older vampire looked frustrated, a teacher trying to beat knowledge into the village idiot. “I know that. C'mon. Look, I'm here to help you - again - but damnit, it's time!”

“Time for what?”

“Time to make a choice.” He said it as if the correct answer was obvious, and she understood that he wanted her to throw in with the Anarchs, or at least, not with the Camarilla.

She was not ready to choose, or perhaps her choice had already been made when Sebastian kissed her, and she had answered him in kind. “Did Nines make it out of Griffith Park?”

“I hope you live to find out.” His optimism was refreshing.

She reached into the pocket of her heavy wool jacket after pulling it on, her fingertips brushing Sebastian’s gifts. “Nothing personal, Jack, but I need evidence that what you say is true.”

Jack sighed and pulled a cigar out of a vest pocket, lighting it and taking a deep drag. “Easy way to find out, kid? Step outside and get dusted. If you don’t plan on that, you're gonna have to stay off the street and stay on the move, cuz it's open season on your ass. Vampires are gonna be bussin' in from Sacramento to join in on this hunt.”

That would be easy enough to confirm, but Jack’s tone already told her that it was true. “How nice of them to take the trouble,” she said.

“You need backing; you need the protection of one of the factions. Friends are the last thing you want to be without right now. But you have to get outta here.”

Friends? The concept had never seemed so bleak. “And go where?”

“I got a driver who can get you where you need to go. Interesting guy, you'll like him. But this place is bein' watched. He's across Santa Monica, by the junkyard. Get there and he'll get you outta town.”

Other options did not seem to be forthcoming. She responded automatically, following the algorithms of an internal courtesy protocol. “Sounds like a plan. Thanks.”

“Alright, get runnin'. Hope you make it outta Santa Monica at least - I'd like to see how this turns out for ya.”

“That makes two of us,” she said. Anger, confusion, sadness—all of those were superfluous. What was necessary was for her to finally understand the shape of the truth. She was nothing, a shadow, a ghost, empty and insubstantial, passing into the alley, slipping past the people who would kill her on the word of the man she loved. Only the truth could touch her. Only the truth could hurt her. 


	32. A cab ride

She sank back into the seat of the cab as headlights flashed past. It was a strange reminder of the rhythms of past nights dictated by Los Angeles traffic. She had sat in cabs like this very one, dozens of times since her life had been taken from her—now all was once again lost. She sensed the cab driver watching her from behind his dark glasses, and for a moment, was struck by a sense of déjà vu, then it slipped away from her as a dream does upon waking, a wave receding from the shore. 

“So...you are a friend of Mr Jack’s?” The gravelly voice seemed familiar, but perhaps she was imagining things. 

Jack had saved her twice, but he wanted to blast Sebastian’s brains over a wall. That seemed too hard to explain. “Jack’s okay...I don’t know if I’d call him a friend” 

“I only recently made the acquaintance of Mister Jack. He intrigues me very much. There are so few like him these nights, I think. But then, I only know what hear from others about the Kindred of this city.” It sounds as if there are many who seek to sway the children of Caine to their side...many who believe they shape the destiny of the blood. You work for Prince LaCroix, don’t you?” 

“I did,” she said, the words bitter in her mouth. “Not anymore. I’m leaving town.” 

“You could run...but do you really think you could escape your reputation? I know little about you except the rumours that you’ve killed the Anarch leader and betrayed your own kind.” 

“None of that is true.” Words against words, and hers would always go unheard. 

“You have been accused. If you were to run, this reputation would travel with you until your final night. Your only recourse is to clear this charge... or to smite the conspirators working against your good name.” 

“Stay, run, fight...does it matter?” She had allowed herself to be driven by instinct, by a Beast that refused to die. She was already dead. Perhaps she should just let nature take its course. 

His voice was even. “I’m just a driver, I can’t take you anywhere unless you tell me where to go.” 

“I don’t know where to go. I just want nothing of this war.” 

“This is the path of legends and pariahs. I have walked before with those who have tried to cast off Jyhad. Their reasons were many. But their paths always ended in the same place, emptiness.” 

She wasn’t there yet. One day, she could be the dark in a flame, or the cold void between stars. But for now, the red thread of fate still bound her, holding her back with its irresistible pull. She knew what she had to do. “I need to go to Chinatown. Then I need to see LaCroix.” 

“If you must. Ming Xiao and LaCroix: when they are destroyed, this city will become chaos. With no heads you can walk past this beast and into a legend, but...you may never know peace—the lives of legend are the prey of the ambitious.” 

“I am not going to destroy LaCroix.” She closed her eyes, the lights casting a red glow through her eyelids. 

“I see. Perhaps, having worked for him, you can offer more insight. This Prince LaCroix—is he really the tyrant the Anarchs make him out to be?” 

“No.” Even in this hour, she could not hate him. “He’s not a perfect leader, but who is? He will sacrifice a few for what he sees as the greater good.” 

The taxi coasted to a stop, horns sounding in the distance. “But what of the Anarchs? Don’t you worry that Prince LaCroix’s vision for this city preclude their existence? Their ways of life seem incompatible.” 

“They’re not as different from the Camarilla as they would like to think,” she answered in a flat voice. “Barons and princes. Favours and tribute. Enforcers and sheriffs. A Masquerade, or one without a name.” 

The engine growled as the taxi started moving again. “Is that so? Was the Anarch leader so much like Prince LaCroix?” 

She exhaled. “Isaac Abrams has much in common with LaCroix. But Nines Rodriguez is—was a good person.” 

“And LaCroix is not?” 

She ran her hands over her upper arms, her skin still tingling with the memory of his touch. “No.” 

“LaCroix makes many new enemies all the time. It will not be long before someone challenges him for this city. Is by his side the best place to stand?” 

The taxi coasted three car-lengths before stopping again. A freeway traffic jam at this time of the night: supernatural war or not, LA had problems. “I just need to see him.” 

“However, to those looking in from the outside, if you were to vanquish the Kuei-Jin and then seek an audience with LaCroix, it would look rather like you had destroyed his enemies to win back his favour.” 

“My business with the Kuei-Jin has little to do with LaCroix.” As a child, she had left innumerable fingerprints smudged against the car windows when they drove at night, framing street lamps with her fingers. “It concerns Mr Wong and Kiki Wong, as well as Mr Zhao.” It had to do with everyone that could have been someone she had known as a child. “As for LaCroix—it’s not his favour that I seek.” She had enjoyed his favour. His affection. She had loved him in return, for all that he was and despite all that he was. She still did. 

“Then what  is it that you seek from Prince LaCroix?” 

“To understand why...” she trailed off, taught by bitter experience to guard her heart with greater care. “To see this through to the end.” 

“I’ve met others like you, and they have always ultimately come to the same conclusion, and that is, there is no person or group in this planet they can pledge loyalty to. If this is the path you must take, I can take you to where the trail begins.” 

She blinked slowly, resting her forehead on the cool glass of the window as the outlines of the city drew closer. “I am ready.”


	33. Folie à deux

LaCroix knew not one moment of peace from the instant that he had called the blood hunt. His nails cut into the skin of his palms, new crescents of blood opening even as the old ones healed. He paced without pause, tapping out a percussion of suffering to accompany his teeth sawing back and forth like a violin's bow against its string. The day had brought him nightmares of her face dissolving into showers of embers under his grasping hands, the confusion in her eyes enough to drown him.

He still tried to direct the assault on the Kuei-Jin despite his distraction, his own forces still jubilant from the victory over the Sabbat, still just as expendable. Their numbers were augmented by a group of disgruntled Anarchs, more interested in exacting revenge on the Kuei-Jin for the murder of both Rodriguez and his predecessor than they were declaring support for any of Rodriguez’s lieutenants. There was a void in Anarch leadership, and he had to seize the moment.

Chinatown’s perimeter was breached with ease, and he almost dared to allow himself a little hope—no one had yet come to claim news of her death, and he remained in control. Devereux had been given the honour of being the vanguard assaulting the Golden Temple, and thus the phone call from him was unexpected.

“LaCroix speaking,” he answered tersely.

“Prince LaCroix,” Devereux grovelled, somehow sounding like he was kneeling with his forehead pressed to the flagstones. “The temple is—well, the Kuei-Jin are all dead.”

“All dead? Are you certain?”

A familiar voice, low and clipped, answered him from the doorway. “It’s true.”

LaCroix had been standing before the great windows, surveying the city below, but now he spun on his heels, not daring to hope. The phone dropped from limp fingers, and he picked it up absently, hanging up on Devereux without giving the matter any further thought. She closed the door behind her, carrying only a stone device that had to be the key to the sarcophagus—proof of her deeds. 

“How did you get in here?” The inane question was all he could manage.

As she approached, it was evident that the night had not been kind. She set the key down on his desk, a silent challenge in the set of her jaw. Without a word, she then shrugged off her jacket and draped it across his desk in a movement that was intended to draw his attention to the bloodstained rips in the fabric. Her blouse was in a similar condition. The work of the werewolves or the Kuei-Jin? Did it matter?

They eyed one another, once against separated by a barricade. “You left Chunk downstairs. I asked him to unlock the lift, and he obliged.” In truth, he had forgotten about the doughy security guard, and the fact that he had allowed her such easy access to his penthouse. There had been much else to consume him over the preceding few nights.

She came around the desk towards him, and he reflexively went to put his hands on her waist. Instead, she picked up his letter opener, the one with the hilt carved in the shape of an ankh, then curled his fingers around it and raised the point to her chest, her soft mouth unsmiling. “I will accept death by the hand of no other. What will it be?” she asked. “My heart? My throat?” The blade’s tip was forced towards her tender neck. “Come, Prince LaCroix. Finish what you started. End the blood hunt.”

It took all his strength to wrest the blade away from her, and he sent it skittering across the floor with a backhand throw. She may as well have used it on him: stabbed him in the chest, slashed his throat. For all that he was not bleeding, he was wounded all the same, and the tremor in his hands and his voice betrayed him. “I had so much invested in you. Hope and—and... Why did you kill Nines Rodriguez?”

“You know that I did no such thing.” The diamond glitter in her eyes was unforgiving. “I joked about not suggesting Genghis Khan’s tactics to Nines, but you were the one who played the Genghis gambit. Such a parade of enemies for your followers. First it was Nines, then it was Míng Xiǎo, then it was I. The perfect scapegoat. And they would all unite to take me down with the Kuei-Jin.”

“I would have sacrificed Rodriguez in a heartbeat to unite the Kindred. But you? You are irreplaceable.” He was still holding one of her hands, and he attempted to draw her closer, but he may as well have tried to shift a continent. “I knew you would survive the ordeal. Now that you’ve returned, we merely tell the Anarchs what really happened: the Kuei-Jin set the fires that enraged the werewolves that killed Rodriguez.”

Her breath stirred the still air. She was the only thing that brought life to this dead place. “I almost feel sorry for you, if you think that anyone could still believe your words. Tell me, Sebastian: was it  _ folie à deux _ to think that we could ever be together? Or was it—just me?”

He tried to hold on to her, but he could no more do so than he could catch sunlight with his hands. “No, Faye, please,  _ ma joie _ , give me another chance.  _ Je’taime. Tu es ma vie et mon tout_. Please stay with me. I love you.”

The resolve in her eyes wavered, a leaf in the gale, but she simply said, “Goodbye, Sebastian.”

He did something very foolish in his desperation. He tried to dominate her will. “Stay. With. Me.”

It was that which severed the final thread. “You disappoint me.” Such mild words, but she could not have inflicted more pain if she had used a flaming brand.

For her, he was not too proud to beg. He sank to his knees.“I beg you. Please, my love. Stay, and allow me the chance to make amends, to regain your trust.  _ S'il-te-plait reste avec moi_.”

“I still don’t understand what you are saying.” She brushed his hands off her, as if he was no more than dust, and she turned to go.

He cried out to the sheriff, somewhere beyond the door. “ _Arrête-la! Ne la laisse pas partir_!”

The door opened, a large shadow falling across it. She did not turn to look at him, only shook her head, disappointed yet again. There was a subtle blue flare of power as she spoke her command. “Protect your master. Go to him now.” As the sheriff’s heavy step took him past her, she said in a soft voice, “You know what you have to do, if you ever want to be free of him.”

A large hand descended on his shoulder as Sebastian watched her go, as he had so many times before. He committed to memory the cadence of her step, the sheen of her hair, the slope of her shoulders. When he stood, it was not of his own volition. His mouth shaped her name one last time. “Faye.”

She paused, her hand on the door. “That girl is dead to everyone who knew her by that name.” And then she was gone. 


	34. Epilogue: Part One

The park was dark but for the radiance of light pollution from the city below and the red glow of a cigar flaring as Jack took a long drag on it. “Well, that was a waste of some perfectly good fireworks. Hey, Messerach buddy, I’m talking to ya! You don’t really talk much, do ya?” He cackled at his own joke. His desiccated companion on the park bench offered no opinion on the humour. “Think I would have preferred it to go the other way you said, ya know. Way I see it, we’re just back to square one, ‘cept without those damned Kuei-Jin devils.” Jack blinked, trying to clear the black streaks in his vision as the crunching of gravel announced someone’s approach.

The footsteps stopped behind the park bench. The presence behind somehow seemed to loom, and one could no more ignore him than ignore an eclipse of the sun, but when he spoke, his voice was low and oddly gentle. “She was all that I had hoped. I believe you will find more has changed than you realise, Mr Jack. Some revolutions have quiet beginnings. Their stories are not yet at an end. Remember, wherever we go, it is the blood of Caine that makes our fate. Farewell, vampire.”

*

The delivery truck had seen better days, possibly in a different century. Mercurio tossed her the keys with a grin, this time literally that of a used-car salesman. “What d’ya think, kid? Not bad for two grand, huh? Aw, don’t gimme that look. This good old girl will get you where you need to go.”

The first thing she checked was the modifications that she had requested. The loading doors were flung open and then closed behind her. The bolts inside were as secure as promised. Upon exiting, she cast a cursory glance over the tyres, then climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. It hummed to life without choking. “It’ll do.” She didn’t have much of a choice. It would be unwise to linger in Los Angeles. As it was, asking LaCroix’s ghoul to help her get out of town had been a gamble, but he owed her, and LaCroix seemed to take little notice of his agent. It had taken a few nights to find a sufficiently reinforced truck and to install the necessary precautions, during which she had been hiding in Mercurio’s bedroom—he had gallantly offered to take the couch.

“In case you’ve forgotten, the blood hunt’s off.” Mercurio’s foot jigged restlessly. “LaCroix put the word out the same night that the Kuei-Jin went down. He ain’t the best boss I’ve had, but he ain’t the worst. Life outside the Camarilla though—that’s rough.”

“As touching as your fondness for him is—I have things to do. Places to be, people to see, all that jazz.”

Mercurio sighed. “I oughtta tell you. Got word from Romero. That actor, the pretty boy. Isaac’s childe. You know the one. He’s looking for you. Said to give you his number, in case you needed help. Woulda told you sooner, but I wanted to make sure you’d have a way to get outta town like you asked. Got the number here if you want it.”

She committed it to memory before tearing the paper to shreds. “Thanks, Mercurio. This is goodbye, then.”

The ghoul looked surprisingly woebegone. “Damn, kid. C’mere.” He pulled her out of the driver’s seat and into a bear hug. She went rigid and he released her with an embarrassed grin. “Guess you’re not a hugger. Gonna miss ya. If you change your mind—I’m sure LaCroix would take you back.”

She forced a smile. “Maybe. Take care, Mercurio.”

She pulled away, but drove only a short distance before she pulled over. She switched on her mobile phone and chose a prepaid SIM card from the pile at random, then dialled the number that she had just memorised.

A familiar voice answered on the third ring. “Hello.” Heavy emphasis on the first syllable.

“Hi. Looking for someone I met a while ago. We’ve gone spelunking together, back in the day.”

“I think you’ve got—oh. Is that really you?” There was excitement in his voice.

She made a small sound of assent. “Yeah, the casual Shakespeare fan. I’m going on a cross-country trip. Interested?”

There was the briefest of pauses. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. Meet you somewhere?”

“Santa Monica Aquarium carpark. I’ll wait for half an hour. Come prepared.”

“I will. Hey—“ Ash caught himself. “I’ll see you soon.”

She switched off the mobile phone and popped the SIM card out again for good measure. She opened the window a crack, just enough to let in some cool sea breeze, blowing in from over the vast, lightless expanse of the ocean. The depths held strange phosphorescent creatures, and she wondered if this curse would let her see those things one day, then she smiled for the first time since she had left Griffith Park. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, and she waited for the smell of the rain.

A motorcycle pulled into the carpark, the low growl of the engine announcing its approach from a block away. The rider pulled his helmet off to reveal the billboard smile of Ash Rivers. She hopped down to greet him with a small, stiff wave.

“I’m surprised you’re still in town,” she said.

He ran his fingers through his hair, looking abashed. “Yeah. I crashed once I got back to Hollywood. Took a few days before I woke up again, but the scars were gone.” He winced as he put a hand to his cheek. “After that, well, I was trying to figure out where I could go. Then I heard what happened with you. I asked Isaac to try to find you, but he refused. Said it was too dangerous. He had Hollywood locked up tight because he was expecting trouble.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “That’s one way to put it. Well, Isaac and LaCroix will have to work out their differences. They have more in common than they would like to think—more than LaCroix and Nines did anyway.”

“Speaking of Nines,” Ash said, hooking his thumbs in his pant pockets. “He asked me to tell you that the Anarchs could use someone like you.”

“He survived?” she asked, naked awe and disbelief in her voice. Ash responded with a small nod. “That’s...good. But I no longer wish to be ‘useful’ to people.”

The Toreador shrugged. “I was never was particularly useful. Just good at acting and living fast. If I come with you—it could make you a target for the hunters coming after me.”

It was her turn to shrug. “If they can find us. Mobile phone?” She took it from him and switched it off. She would wipe it later, maybe drop it in a donation bin once she had wiped it between this city and the next. “I hope you don’t mind slumming it on a camping cot or a sleeping bag in the back of the truck.”

“It’s a road trip. What else would I expect?” He rested a hand on the handlebars of his bike. “Have you got much in the back? Think this will fit? I’ve got some gear for you too. Proper stuff, Kevlar and all.” Together, they heaved the bike in. “Where are we headed anyway?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “Back home.”

“And where’s that?”

She pointed away from the ocean. “A long way in that direction. Not so far that no one will recognise you. Still up for it?”

“Yeah. There’s a storm coming. Let’s hit the road.”


	35. Epilogue: Part Two

“Sir, uh. The Skyeline apartment. What would you like us to do with it?”

LaCroix’s glare should have made the unlucky aide burst into flames. His first thought was to purchase the entire building so that he could watch it utterly destroyed, that perhaps turning it into shattered concrete and steel and glass would give him some relief. Then his constant companion, the foolish hope that he was unable to excise—the agonising thought that she might yet return—stayed his hand. “Bring me a set of keys,” he said instead. “Ensure that someone continues to maintain the fish tank, but otherwise leave it untouched, or risk my displeasure. Do I make myself clear?”

Johnson swallowed. “As crystal, sir.”

“Good. You are dismissed.” He ran a hand over his desk when he was alone. It was one habit that he still had not lost: his sheriff waited at the door rather than behind his shoulder, just in case she—

His hand curled into a fist. The last few months could have been a dream, if not for the Kuei-Jin rout. The Camarilla had sent tepid congratulations for that victory, along with a pointed comment that the Anarchs yet remained. Whispers of Rodriguez’s survival echoed through the back alleys that was the Anarchs’ natural habitat. Abrams remained as hostile as ever. Without the threat of the Kuei-Jin, the Kindred once again splintered along their ideological differences, choosing their tribes with the same whims of faeces-flinging apes.

Now he was back to the beginning, with less room for manoeuvring and without the element of surprise. And—

_ Her skin, under his lips, his teeth, and he wanted nothing more than to bite down— _

He gritted his teeth as he waited for the memory to pass. It would recede, like a wave wiping the sand blank. When he was ready, he took a box out from a locked desk drawer, tucked it under one arm and marched towards the lift. The sheriff made to follow him but he lifted a hand. “Follow over the rooftops, if you must. But I wish to be alone for a time.” When he arrived in the lobby, he declined the car to the alarmed protestations of his aides, then walked out of the front door into pouring rain.

The streets were empty as he splashed through puddles, indifferent to the mud on his suit. It had been years since he had walked in the rain, and he had not walked the streets of LA despite claiming it as his domain. He smiled to himself, wondering if a young man in the uniform of the  _Grande Armée _would have laughed at the thought of claiming something without knowing it, or whether he would have shrugged and said that Napoleon claimed by conquering. Perhaps he would have added afterwards that Napoleon conquered by knowing his enemies and his battlefields.

The intentional spelling error in the apartment’s name had always irritated him. He took the creaking lift with plywood walls to level four—a homophone for death, she had said with a smile, her dark hair fanned out over the pillow. He let himself in and doffed his drenched suit jacket, hanging it over the back of a dining chair, before he stared at the fish tank. It spanned the height of the two storey apartment, and he could see no way to clean it beyond donning scuba gear, or sending in some unlucky Kindred who didn’t need anything as superfluous as oxygen. But that was Johnson’s problem. The fish swam in slow circles, and he wondered why she had found it so comforting.

His wish for the apartment to remain untouched had come too late. The Nosferatu had already combed through it, hunting for any clues as to her next movements. There was a sloping stack of books on the coffee table, and atop that, a book nestled in the crumpled remains of a brown paper bag. He picked up the book. Le Petit Prince - The Little Prince:Bilingue avec le texte parallèle- Bilingual parallel text: Français - Anglais / French - English. There was no one there to hear his sharp exhalation or to see the set of his jaw. With a slow, careful movement, he opened the cover, and written inside in her nigh illegible scrawl was:  _ How’s this for a start? _

He brought the book along as he made his way upstairs, kicking away a fallen roll of gift wrapping paper festooned with dinosaurs. He turned on the stereo, wanting even a tenuous connection to her music of choice—one more thing that he had never thought to ask—then sat in front of the computer. Switched it on, to see if there was some secret message for him that even the Nosferatu had not been able to find. There was none. He walked into the bedroom, ran his hand over a pillow that carried the faint scent of her hair and skin. He wished that he had visited her here too, drank with her at the table, on the couch, shared her bed, bumped elbows in the over-tub shower. If only—

He laid the box on the bed and opened it, removing each object in its turn and examining it from every angle, as if some subliminal revelation could be found if he looked hard enough. A utilitarian messenger bag. A purple stethoscope with her name printed on it, the rubber flaking slightly in places. A wallet made of cheap colourful fabric with a print of sleeping owls. An odd collection of ballpoint pens. A set of keys. A hospital ID card with a photograph of her, mouth twitched upwards begrudgingly in an expression that he couldn’t truthfully describe as a smile, her gaze sharp behind black-rimmed spectacles. He ran a loving thumb over her face, as he had so many times before. He addressed her in a very quiet voice.

“I know where you are going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are finally at the end! This is by far the longest fanfic that I polished enough to post. Thank you so much to everyone who read, left kudos and commented along the way, especially to the awesome ASpotOfBother (whose story Power and Control is well worth a read). I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did, and I do have some vague ideas about the aftermath of all this, if I can ever meld them into some sort of satisfactory form. 
> 
> Stay safe in this mad world, everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> While I haven't specifically tried to set it in 2004, it shouldn't be too different from the game's technology apart from high resolution phone cameras. Comments and criticism are very welcome!


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